


As a seal upon your heart

by Eienvine



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, But not quite your usual soulmate AU, F/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 19:37:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20494166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eienvine/pseuds/Eienvine
Summary: Everyone knows that Thor and Sif have had each other’s names on their wrists since they were children, soulmarks showing that they are meant to be together. What no one knows is that Loki has had Sif’s name on his wrist all that time as well.It’s supposed to be impossible for an Asgardian to have a one-sided soulmark. But that doesn't change the letters he sees written on his skin.





	As a seal upon your heart

**Author's Note:**

> To make the premise of this story work required me to deconstruct the soulmate AU, which I was fine with; truth be told, I've always had some problems with the trope, both logistical and philosophical, which you will notice me mentioning in the story. (Although that's certainly not stopped me from loving a number of well-written soulmate AUs.)
> 
> The point of all this is to say that if you absolutely love soulmate AUs and you won't hear a word said against them, you might not love this story. :D

. . . . . .

_Set me as a seal upon your heart,_  
_ As a seal upon your arm_  
_ For love is strong as death._

_ \- Song of Solomon _

. . . . . .

When Prince Thor of Asgard meets the lady Sif, during a royal family visit to her father’s estate when they are both young, it only takes three days of them playing in the fields together before their names appear on each other’s wrists.

It makes sense, the adults say sagely. The prince, though young—barely on the cusp of adolescence—is already showing every indication of becoming like his father, strong and valiant and skilled in battle; he loves nothing more than playing with his sword and learning to hunt. And the young Sif is much the same; she has always been a puzzle to her parents, who had hoped to raise a refined young lady and instead have a little hoyden on their hands, constantly climbing trees and scraping her hands and getting in fights with the stable boys. She and Thor behave practically like twins, and after so much time spent together—and at such an impressionable age—it was perhaps inevitable that they would bond with each other.

Frigga and Thor are pleased; Sif is of good stock, from a wealthy family with whom it is wise to maintain good relations. And Tyr and Gná are ecstatic to know their daughter will someday be queen.

So the royal family takes Sif back with them to Asgard, so she and Thor may be raised together, and Sif may be taught in the ways of royalty. But they soon see that she is not entirely suited to this life; she is still more interested in getting in fights than in learning formal dances and courtly etiquette. Frigga quickly learns that the only way to get the girl to listen to her lessons is to bribe her by allowing her to train in the martial arts with Thor.

And quickly it becomes clear that Thor’s soulmate is as fierce and as talented as her future husband, and will someday be a great warrior queen.

. . . . . .

When Prince Loki of Asgard meets the Lady Sif, during a training session with the Einherjar, it takes less than two minutes before her name appears on his wrist.

The young prince had been too unwell to join his family on the trip to Tyr’s estate, and had stayed in Eir’s care instead. The illness also kept him away from meals and sword training for a time after the royal family’s return, so while he’d heard that his brother had received the mark of the girl he was going to marry, she remained a mystery to him.

So it’s not until this moment in the training yard that he sees Sif: a slender girl no older than him, with golden hair flying behind her as she moves through the sword drills. Loki has only just begun to be aware of girls, and he is more aware of her than he has ever been of anything else in his whole life. And then the beautiful vision stops her drills and smiles at him.

He is a goner.

He is so enraptured by that smile that he trips over his own feet and falls to the dirt, and Fandral, an older boy who’s recently come to train with the Einherjar, has a few clever jabs and insults for him. Before Loki even has time to be hurt or angry, though, Sif shuts Fandral down with a dark look and a few sharp words; he cannot remember the last time someone other than his mother came to his defense.

She helps Loki to his feet, then goes back to her wooden practice sword. A lovestruck Loki watches her go, rubbing his wrist absentmindedly, and some part of him is not at all surprised to look down and see her name has appeared on his pale skin.

Most of him, though, is shocked. It is impossible for an Asgardian to bond with more than one person, and it is impossible for an Asgardian to have a one-sided bond. This isn’t folk wisdom, but a proven fact; Eir has done much research on the subject, and while she can’t explain the mechanism, she has proven that there is something hardwired into Asgardian DNA that interacts with some enchantment that permeates all the Nine Realms—something that comes from Yggdrasil, perhaps, for it seems not to affect those outside the Nine Realms—and causes the soulmarks. And the soulmarks are always reciprocal, as far as Eir can tell.

So it is impossible for Loki to have Sif’s name on his wrist, and for Sif to have Thor’s name on hers.

Impossible, and yet true.

Loki is young and stubborn and proud, and already inclined to feel a bit of an outsider compared to his popular, charismatic brother. The last thing he wants is to be an oddity: the only Asgardian ever to bond with someone who is not bonded back. So he hides the name on his wrist behind long sleeves, and he hides the feelings in his heart behind sarcastic comments and a prickly demeanor. This unseen thing drives a wedge between the two princes, for Thor does not understand why Loki seems to be pulling away from him, and Loki cannot help but resent his brother for always getting the things Loki wants handed to him on a silver platter.

And Sif he treats with disdain, in an attempt to sever this connection between them; he makes her a frequent target of his practical jokes, once going so far as to cut off her long golden hair while she sleeps. It sickens him to think of what he’s done, but he can’t deny feeling a perverse sort of satisfaction when her hair grows back jet black, and her eyebrows change to match. In a city of fair coloring and strong traditions, they are an anomaly, a matched set in their strange coloring and their strange proclivities: the trickster prince and the warrior girl, with hair dark as the night sky.

He revels in it, because it is the closest they will ever come to being a couple.

But in time, he mellows. With age and wisdom comes the realization that polite indifference is a far better mask than open antagonism, and now polite indifference characterizes every relationship he has: Sif, Thor, the other warriors, his father. (Not his mother, though; never his mother.) He perfects an illusion that hides the name on his wrist, even when he is sleeping, and no longer lives in fear of his sleeve riding up and his secret being revealed. He buries himself in his magical studies because it is the only thing that is his, truly his, and not one of Thor’s hand-me-downs.

And long, lonely centuries pass.

. . . . . .

“This is surprising,” drawls an unexpected but familiar voice, and Sif whirls to face the source. “The shieldmaiden willingly visiting the library?”

A smile quirks the corner of her lips. “Loki. I did not see you there.” Indeed she can barely see him now, hidden as he is in one of the tall armchairs facing the fire, just part of his face visible as he turns back to see her. “And for your information, the shieldmaiden often willingly visits the library.”

“Romantic poetry?” he guesses.

She rolls her eyes. “Research. I believe in knowing my enemy, and the terrain we will be fighting in.”

“Unexpected,” he observes.

“It shouldn’t be,” she says. “Only a fool would rush into battle without doing all they can to prepare.”

“Ah, I suppose that explains why Thor has not joined you.”

Sif has to fight back the laugh that threatens to burst from her, even as she fixes him with a pointed look. “Your brother understands the importance of delegation. He has other tasks to complete in preparation for our departure.” She pauses. “You know, I wouldn’t have to do this research if you’d just agree to come with us. Surely you already know the information I’m searching for.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” he says drily, “but contrary to popular opinion, I haven’t read the entire library. Besides, I’d only get in the way if I tagged along on Thor’s latest quest for glory.”

“Never,” she objects. “We do truly wish you’d come with us.”

“You are kind to say so,” he says in a voice that sounds more dutiful than sincere. “But I think we both know Thor and the Warriors Three are happier without a magician to protect.”

He’s not wrong that the Warriors Three don’t always see the value of his magic and his mind, which exasperates her a little; the goddess of war believes in taking advantage of every available resource to win a battle. But he’s wrong about his brother. “Thor wishes you were coming.”

There’s a subtle but strange edge to his tone. “It’s good of you to believe the best of your intended.”

And Sif bites her lip. Sometimes she feels like she is the only person in Asgard who truly sees Loki for what he is, with all the good and bad that implies. She sees his intelligence, his power, his great gift for persuasion, and his immense talent in telling stories and making people laugh. She enjoys her stimulating conversations with him, and she doesn’t understand why more people don’t see his worth and value. She’s glad to know him, most of the time, and glad to know that someday he will be her brother-in-law so she may keep his clever wit and dry humor in her life.

(And she feels sorry for him, for she imagines that if he were in another family, or perhaps an only child, he would be widely admired and praised for his intelligence and his prodigious magical abilities and his skill with throwing knives. But with Thor as a brother, anyone would pale in comparison.)

But on the other hand, truly seeing Loki means that she sometimes glimpses a darkness in him that no one else seems to notice. She sees that he wears placid looks like masks, and she wonders what those masks conceal. She sees that his smiles sometimes don’t reach his eyes, and that he isn’t truly close to anyone except his mother, and she worries for him. But he rejects any efforts on her part to befriend him. As he is doing now.

“I don’t think it qualifies as ‘believing the best’ if it’s true,” she says steadily. “And anyway, _ I _wish you were coming.”

For a moment Loki’s face softens, his usual mask dropping away, and he seems genuinely pleased by her statement. It’s moments like these that motivate her to keep trying to break through his walls—moments when he lets on that he is not as indifferent as he pretends. But then the mask is back and he is politely thanking her for saying so and she knows he doesn’t quite believe her.

And then he stands from his chair. “And if you are looking for information on the Kortin region, I believe you should try one shelf over.” He steps close to her and pulls a volume from a shelf to hand to her, and she takes it wordlessly, slightly distracted by his nearness. He was always such a lanky child, with cherubic features that seemed ill-suited to the serious expressions he usually wore, but he has grown into his body and his face well: slender but strong, nearly as tall as Thor, and just as handsome in his own way. It surprises her that no young lady of the court has snatched him up yet, for surely he would be attractive prey, both as a physical specimen and as a prince of Asgard. The queen’s throne is already spoken for, but surely to become a princess is the next best thing.

His mask slips again. “I hope you find success and safety on your quest,” he says quietly but sincerely, and steps around her.

Unconsciously rubbing her wrist, she watches him leave the library.

. . . . . .

“Darling, the warriors have returned; they should be at the palace in a few minutes. Won’t you come greet them?”

Loki’s irritation at having his spellcasting interrupted is outweighed by his desire to see that the warriors have returned in one piece, so he follows his mother to the front steps of the palace, where his father is already waiting. Odin smiles at his son but has nothing to say to him, which is such a normal occurrence these days that Loki hardly notices it. He and the Allfather have never had a great deal in common, and the distance between them increases with each year that passes.

The bandits the warriors went to battle on Vanaheim were quite deadly, and the palace has received reports of a few losses and many injuries. So Loki finds himself a bit on edge as he fixes his eyes on the warriors beginning to pour into the courtyard, all battered but exultant.

Finally, here are the two he was most straining his eyes to see: Prince Thor and Lady Sif, riding side by side and looking largely uninjured. From his shoulders slips a weight he’s been carrying for three weeks, even as a tired sort of resignation settles in to take its place as he sees them smiling fondly at each other. Two words echo in his head as he looks at Thor and Sif: _ alive _ but _ together. Together _ but _ alive. _

Fandral called him heartless once, decades ago. Volstagg had been pestering Loki for an hour to spar with him, finally offering that he’d let the prince use magic. Loki agreed simply to shut him up, and in his eagerness to end the bout quickly, he put more power than he’d intended behind his first energy blast. The portly warrior was thrown across the training yard into a wall, and for a moment it appeared that Loki had done real damage. The shock and guilt rendered Loki mute and motionless, and when Fandral looked up from checking on his friend to see Loki standing still, with no visible reaction to the damage he’d nearly caused, he muttered a single word: _ heartless. _

No doubt Fandral has forgotten the incident, but it sneaks to the forefront of Loki’s mind often. _ Heartless__._ And in his more darkly fanciful moments, he supposes that maybe it’s true. Maybe that is why he is the only Asgardian in recorded history who bonded with someone who did not bond with him back. For how could Sif be expected to bond with someone who has no heart?

But just at the moment, watching Sif and Thor dismount from their horses in perfect unison, he knows he must have a heart. For if he has no heart, what is that thing in his chest, pounding with relief at seeing his brother and the shieldmaiden safely returned? Would a heartless being have worried so deeply for their safety? It has crossed his mind a time or ten that his life would be very different if Thor were not in it. If there were no Thor, Loki would be heir to the throne, and Sif would have no name on her wrist (or maybe Sif would have a different name on her wrist, one Loki has dreamed of seeing there a thousand times). But even with that knowledge, he never wishes harm on his brother. Perhaps it would be logical for him to wish harm on his brother, but he cannot do it. Thor irritates him no end, but he is his brother, and despite everything he loves him.

So how could he be heartless, truly? Indeed, Loki knows himself to have a heart. Knows it all too well, some days.

Knows it very well in that moment when he and his parents start making his way to where Sif stands, and he sees that he was wrong when he thought her uninjured; there is a mighty gash in her leg, bleeding sluggishly, and it takes all of Loki’s self-control not to gasp, to fuss, to worry, to heal it himself without waiting for Eir. Healing has never been his specialty, and to do so would be to give away too much.

But he has not kept it from his face, clearly, for Sif grins at him. “You look as though you have been worried about us, prince.”

“Merely thinking you should get your leg wound seen to soon,” he says calmly. “It would be a shame to have one of Asgard’s greatest warriors incapacitated.”

Sif grimaces. “Yes, the healing hall, I think.” She looks around, then back at Loki. “Might I beg your help getting there, my prince? I am not walking so well just now.”

It’s on the tip of the tongue to say yes—keeping his secret can go hang, Sif needs help and she asked _ him_, of all people—when Thor appears from the crowd of well-wishers who’ve surrounded him. “My family!” he declares, and hugs each of them in turn. “I want to tell you all about our adventure, but first we must get this fierce warrior to Eir.” He smiles at Sif and takes one of her wrists so he can pull her arm over his shoulder. “I will see you at the feast tonight, yes?” he asks, and he and Sif disappear into the crowd, the shieldmaiden glancing back at them once.

Loki smooths his face into a careful mask. Probably for the best that he not allow himself to get so close to her anyway. And he ignores the odd look that his mother is giving him.

That night he dresses for the celebration feast a bit more willingly than usual; wondering about Sif’s wellbeing has plagued him all day, making it impossible for him to return to his spellcasting with the proper amount of concentration and focus. At least now his curiosity can be satisfied.

She is sitting at the center of the head table, next to Thor, as is her right (_as will always be her right, _ he reminds himself, _ and it’s best to get used to it_); Thor grins on seeing Loki and wants him to sit close by, but the nearby chairs are all taken and Loki ends up across the table from his brother and several seats away. He does not mind, for here he will not be expected to take quite so much part in the revels.

And revels there are: tales of the battle are told and retold, growing more heroic and unlikely as the night passes on and the mead flows, and when they’ve exhausted this most recent battle they move on to past glories. Thor gets louder as he gets more drunk—which is a bit astounding, considering how loud he is sober—and Loki watches him with a familiar mix of love, irritation and worry.

Love, because despite resenting his brother for getting everything he himself wants, Loki can’t help but love Thor, who is a man of simple, genuine, and heartfelt affections (for all but his enemies), and who sincerely loves his little brother. Irritation, because despite having such a loving heart, Thor can often be a thoughtless, arrogant, immature warmonger.

Worry, because Loki doesn’t know whether Thor’s good characteristics or his bad ones will take precedence when he becomes king. Their father is growing old; he needs the Odinsleep more and more often as the decades tick by, and as a result he is considering stepping down from the throne and making Thor king. And Thor isn’t ready. He is an impressive warrior and a well-meant, kind-hearted man, but neither of these will be enough to make him a good king; he has never bothered to learn statecraft or diplomacy, and he certainly isn’t naturally endowed with the gifts of intelligence, finesse and social awareness that would let him coast by without study. Add to all this Thor’s immaturity and arrogance, and Loki finds himself genuinely worried for the fate of Asgard, if it rests in the crown prince’s hands.

(Genuinely worried; he swears this has nothing to do with the fact that he thinks he himself would make an excellent king.)

He has thought a time or two of doing something about it—taking some desperate action to prove to their father that Thor is not ready for the throne. And if such an action would only affect Thor, he might have done it. But Sif is Thor’s intended, and what hurts him hurts her. And Loki can’t do that to her. As long as she is Thor’s, Loki cannot act against his brother.

Although she’s hardly acting like Thor’s intended tonight, is she? As the night goes on, Loki can’t help but notice that the crown prince and his future queen seem to be acting . . . well, not like soulmates. This isn’t new; he has long noticed that the pair of them rarely show physical affection in front of others; he’s always assumed that they simply prefer to keep such things private.

But tonight—and maybe this is just the mead talking—he can’t help but notice that they seem a bit distant from each other; they’re certainly comfortable with each other, and they chat and laugh together often enough, but they do not gravitate toward each other, the way Odin and Frigga or Volstagg and Hildegund do. Tonight—and surely this is the mead talking—Loki almost thinks that Sif seems a little irritated with her intended, who is getting increasingly sloppy and careless as he gets increasingly drunk.

Which means nothing. He knows it means nothing.

Just as it means nothing when she looks up and catches him watching her, and a smile lights up her face, and it’s so breathtaking that he forgets to be aloof. He smiles back, a hesitant little thing, and her face brightens even more. One of her hands lifts from where she was rubbing her wrist to give him a little wave.

Thor says something to her and the moment is broken; she looks away from Loki and toward her intended, and Loki is released from the enchantment of her smile. He turns to flag down a server to bring him more mead, and is surprised to see his mother watching him with a thoughtful expression on her face.

. . . . . .

It was difficult to leave the country estate of her childhood to be raised in the golden palace of Asgard, but as Thor’s future wife, Sif has found great comfort in the welcoming arms of the royal family. She is invited to join them often for meals and entertainments, and sometimes just for sitting together in the expansive common areas of the royal wing, saying little but enjoying each other’s company.

And so they are sitting one warm evening when Heimdall arrives unexpectedly. Her half-brother only leaves his post when a situation is serious, and Sif watches him with concern.

The Gatekeeper seeks an audience with the royal family, but his golden eyes seek Sif out, clearly hesitant to speak in front of her.

“Anything you would say to us, you may say in front of Sif,” declares Thor loyally. “She will be queen one day.”

Odin nods his head and gestures for Heimdall to continue, and Frigga sets aside her sewing and Loki sets aside his book, ready to listen.

So Heimdall speaks. “There is a Midgardian scientist I have been observing for several years,” he informs them. “One of the most intelligent of her kind, and her areas of interest have led her to investigate the phenomena that govern the operation of the Bifrost. Today she made a breakthrough, and has sketched out a concept for a machine that would successfully allow her to reproduce the Bifrost’s effects.”

“Clever woman,” observes Loki. “And could she build this machine?”

“Not right now, no,” says Heimdall. “It would require technology the Midgardians have not yet mastered, and an immense power source.”

“But?” prompts Frigga.

“But it’s possible she could do it within her lifetime.”

“A troubling possibility indeed,” murmurs Odin. “The Midgardians have grown clever in my absence.”

“Their technological advances of the last century have been nothing short of astounding,” Heimdall agrees. “Which is why this latest development alarms me. A hundred years ago I would have said such technology was out of their reach for a millennium yet. Today, I am not so certain.”

Frigga puts everyone’s thoughts into words. “You think, perhaps, it is time for us to reconsider our classification of Midgard as one of the less-developed realms. Consider the possibility of changing our diplomatic relations with them.”

“Make ourselves known to them before they show up at our front door,” Heimdall confirms. “Of course such a decision is up to you, Allfather, but I wanted to make you aware that the time is rapidly approaching when you must make it.”

Odin thanks and dismisses the Gatekeeper, and turns to Frigga. “Clearly a visit to Midgard is in order.”

“Official?” Frigga asks, but Odin shakes his head.

“In disguise, to discreetly investigate whether their civilization is sufficiently developed. Perhaps just a single Asgardian.”

“Someone who can employ stealth, and blend into a new environment,” Frigga agrees.

Behind her, Loki sits up straighter, looking interested—then deflates a little when Odin says, “This sounds like an excellent mission for you, Thor, as making judgments such as these will be an important part of being king.”

Loki looks less than convinced, and Sif privately agrees with him; Thor has many excellent qualities, but stealth, subtlety, and the ability to read a delicate situation and act accordingly are not among them.

But Odin has made his decision, so there’s nothing for it. “Do you mind us stealing away your intended for a few weeks?” the king asks Sif.

“Not at all,” answers Sif truthfully. “It seems an important task, and besides, I shall be quite busy training new Einherjar recruits.”

“Excellent,” says Thor, looking more excited about this journey than he has about anything in months.

So, two days later, the royal family is standing at the Observatory, waving Thor goodbye. The crown prince looks quite different than Sif is used to, with his long hair pulled back. He’s dressed in Midgardian clothes that Heimdall somehow obtained: a simple cotton shirt, a brown jacket, and loose trousers of a sturdy, blue material. There’s a rucksack slung over his shoulder, part of a cover story that Loki helped him concoct: that he is a tourist visiting from another Midgardian nation.

Thor is all smiles as he kisses his mother, hugs his brother, and clasps his father’s arm. Then he turns to Sif, taking her arm and pulling her a little away from the group; the others dutifully pretend to be looking at something in the opposite direction. “I appreciate you not minding me going off on my own,” he says quietly.

“Of course it’s fine,” she says, and means it. She is fond of Thor, certainly. But she’s not going to fall apart without him.

He smiles, then hesitates, then leans in and presses a brief, perfunctory kiss to her lips. Then he runs up onto the platform and is spirited away by the Bifrost, leaving Sif feeling a little . . . flat.

It used to be exciting, when they kissed. They were young, and kissing was exciting and new and seemed very grown up, and anyway the knowledge that they were meant to marry someday made it all seem more significant, somehow. But in the last few decades, Thor’s kisses—all of his touches—have done little for her. A brush of their fingers, his hand on the small of her back, the prickle of his beard against her face: all of this used to send warmth and excitement coursing through her, because it was new and unknown. Now feeling his skin against hers gives her no more pleasure than shaking hands with Fandral or Hogun or one of their other companions.

She’s heard the ladies of the palace speak of their own marriages, and how the burning passion of the early days eventually gives way to a steady but sincere affection, and she supposes that’s how she’s feeling now. She and Thor simply got engaged so early in their lives that the passion left the relationship before they even got married.

It’s normal, and it’s fine. After all, she has his name on her wrist, and he has hers. Clearly they are meant to be together.

And so Thor goes off to Midgard and she goes back to her duties, and time flies by. Sif is surprised to see that she doesn’t miss Thor much at all, except when she is in the training yard to spar and wants a true challenge. Things are quieter without him, but she doesn’t necessarily mind that. Subduing a mountain troll on the outskirts of Asgard takes a little more effort than it would with him and his hammer present, but that just means more glory for the rest of them. She trains the new recruits and spars with the Warriors Three and enjoys the company of the royal family, and she’s as happy as she’s ever been.

And one day she finally admits to herself something that’s been creeping up on her for some time now, demanding to be thought about: Thor does not necessarily contribute to her personal happiness.

It’s an insane thought, of course; his name is on her wrist. They are meant to be together.

But that doesn’t change the fact that she is not any less happy with him gone.

And she wonders what that means.

In the meantime, her distraction over this realization does not blind her to the fact that Thor has been on Midgard much longer than planned: the expected few weeks is now stretching into four months. Surely it does not take this long to investigate a scientist’s research and the technological development of her civilization; surely at this point Thor is just dragging his feet about returning.

And from the fact that Thor’s early messages home described the scientist as a beautiful and charming young lady, and that Heimdall is becoming increasingly uncomfortable when Sif asks after her intended’s wellbeing, she is beginning to suspect she knows why.

So there is a part of her that is not particularly surprised when she wakes up one morning to find Thor’s name has vanished from her wrist.

The rest of her is baffled, however; such a thing is supposed to be impossible, and she has never heard of it happening. Part of her wants to ask Eir about it, the healer having made an academic study of the subject, but a louder part of her insists on putting on a long-sleeved tunic, to cover up her now-bare wrist, and going about her day as though nothing has changed.

Thor, to his credit, returns that night, and he brings the scientist with him. The Midgardian is a mousy little thing, though pretty in her way, but there is nothing shy or retiring about the way she stares in awe at the golden palace around her.

All this Sif sees from a side door of the throne room; from where she’s standing, she can see the side of Thor and the Midgardian’s faces, and she can hear the Allfather’s roaring voice.

“What is the meaning of this?”

Thor stands firm in the face of his father’s thunderous disapproval. “This is Jane Foster, Father. I wanted her to see where I come from. I wanted her to know what she’s getting into.”

Odin’s tone drips with danger. “What she’s getting into?”

And Thor takes a deep breath, pushes back the cuff of his Midgardian jacket, and shows his wrist to his father; after he nudges her, Jane Foster the Midgardian does the same. Sif can’t see their wrists from this angle, but she has a fairly good idea of what’s on them. She rubs her own empty wrist and waits with bated breath for Odin’s response.

“How is this possible?” the Allfather roars.

“I don’t know,” Thor says helplessly. “But it happened.”

“You are betrothed!”

“Yes, and when Sif’s name was on my wrist, you told me I had to marry her,” Thor says, and Sif winces. Odin had to tell Thor that he _ had _ to marry her? “And now Jane’s name is on my wrist. By the same token, don’t I have to marry _ her_?”

“You were happy enough with the arrangement with Sif when your mark appeared.”

“I was barely more than a child when the bonds were formed,” Thor objects. “How many of us genuinely know, when we are children, what we will want when we are grown?” 

“This is some trickery,” growls Odin, and shouts to someone nearby, “Fetch my wife and the healer Eir!” Footsteps recede into the distance.

It takes a strong person to withstand the withering blast of the Allfather’s displeasure. But Thor is just such a person. “But Father, I don’t care about bonds. I don’t care about soulmarks. Even before this appeared, I knew that I had to be with Jane.” He turns to the Midgardian beside him, and Sif feels a strange pang in her chest. In centuries of betrothal, Thor never once looked at her the way he is looking at Jane Foster. “I love her; I wish to marry her.”

He never told Sif that he loved her, either.

Jane Foster speaks up, surprised. “Marry?” she repeats. “This is the first time you mentioned that.”

“Of course I want to marry you,” says Thor gently. “And you will be queen of Asgard.”

“_What?_” she demands. “You didn’t tell me you were the heir to the throne!”

In the silence that follows—Odin is probably working himself up to apoplexy—Thor lifts his eyes over Jane Foster’s head, and his gaze falls on Sif, hiding away by the side door. Immediately his face fills with shame, and he steps around his Midgardian and walks toward her.

“Sif,” he says quietly. “My dearest friend. I am so sorry. I never meant for you to find out this way—I never meant for this to happen at all—”

“Is Sif there?” roars Odin. “Bring her forward. Let her lay claim to what is rightfully hers.”

So, hesitantly, Sif steps out into the throne room. Jane Foster looks embarrassed and a little overwhelmed, Thor looks shamefaced but hopeful, and Odin is red-faced with fury. And of course—_of course_—Loki is standing silently by the throne, witness to her great dishonor.

Though now that she’s getting a proper look at him . . . his face is difficult to read, but she’s fairly certain she doesn’t see derision or amusement there.

“Sif,” orders Odin, “remind Thor what he owes you. What he has promised to you. What the soulmarks demand.”

And Sif casts her mind over the last centuries. She thinks of how she has recently realized that Thor has always been more like a brother to her than a romantic partner. She thinks of how she has tried so hard for so long to convince herself that the friendly, platonic affection she feels for him will sustain them through millennia of marriage.

She looks at her king, blustering and angry. She looks at Loki, who has volumes of thoughts hidden behind his eyes, if only she knew how to read them. She looks at Jane Foster, who (though currently looking somewhat overwhelmed) has a kind face: the face of someone she could be friends with.

And she looks at Thor, her intended, her dearest friend, whose face is a hurricane of emotion: shame, fear, determination, hope. And most of all, when he looks at Jane Foster, love. Even if Sif were the sort of person who’s willing to make a man marry her who does not want to, she would have to be a monster to try to keep apart two people who feel such love for each other.

A love that Thor never felt for Sif, and a love that, Sif can finally admit to herself, she never truly felt for him.

So she turns to the throne and prepares to do the most disrespectful, disloyal thing she has ever dared. “Odin Allfather,” she declares in a clear voice, “I wish to end my betrothal to your son.”

Behind her, Thor lets out a harsh sigh of relief, a sound that is echoed in the way that Loki’s shoulders seem to suddenly sag, for some reason.

Odin is staring, caught completely off-guard and wordless for once in his life. “Why?” he splutters. “Your bonds—”

“Were wrong,” Sif says. “Or maybe they were right once, and something changed. I don’t know. All I know is, Thor was correct when he said ours was dissolved.” And she pushes up her sleeve and shows her bare wrist to the throne.

Loki leans forward, as though to get a better look.

“I don’t know the mechanism by which it occurred,” she adds. “All I know is that it occurred. And now that it has, I feel comfortable releasing Thor to marry the woman who not only bears his mark, but whom he also clearly loves.” She hesitates. “I feel comfortable saying that, as dearly as I regard him, we have never felt for each other what he and this Jane Foster clearly feel for each other.” She turns back to Thor. “Is that fair to say?”

Thor looks surprised, but admits, “It is true.”

“You would throw away this betrothal so lightly?” Odin demands. “Have you no regard for oaths or promises?”

“I have great regard for them,” Sif says mildly. “As I believe I have demonstrated through my loyalty to the oaths I made as a shieldmaiden. And if Thor and I were married, this would be a very different situation; I would insist that we attempt to sort through our problems to honor those sacred vows. But we are not married, merely betrothed, and that is not a binding vow. I find little difficulty in releasing him from that agreement.”

Odin has no response to this.

And Sif doesn’t know what will happen next, especially with Odin’s face looking like a storm cloud, but she does know that for the first time in decades, maybe centuries, she feels curiously free.

The doors burst open then, and Frigga and Eir hurry in. “What is it, dearest?” asks the queen.

Odin points an accusing finger down to where Sif, Thor and Jane Foster stand in a small group. “Your son wants to marry this—this Midgardian scientist!”

Frigga looks startled. “But Sif—”

“Claims she wants to break off their betrothal!” Odin thunders.

Frigga turns to Thor. “Darling?”

So Thor tells the whole story, how he met Jane Foster on Midgard (when she hit him with her vehicle), and how he befriended her when he realized that she was the scientist he was sent to investigate. He tells how he fell in love with her, but thought that nothing could be done about it, until he woke up this morning to see that the mark on his wrist had changed. He tells of how this prompted him to tell her the truth of who he really is, and how he brought her to Asgard to prove he spoke the truth and to find a way to get his family’s approval for the match.

“That’s impossible,” Frigga breathes. “Isn’t it?”

“Actually, it’s not,” Jane Foster pipes up. “Sorry to interrupt, but this is how bond-marks work on Earth. Midgard,” she corrects herself. “For humans, bond-marks are believed to show only the person that you have the highest likelihood of having a successful relationship with right then, not the person that you’re, you know, _ destined _to be with. And it’s possible—and not uncommon—for a new bond-mark to replace an old one. I assume that my human influence is why Thor’s changed and Sif’s disappeared.” And she shoots Sif an apologetic look.

Most of the room looks baffled at this, but Eir looks fascinated. “It’s certainly possible that the marks behave differently in different species,” she confirms. “Given that there is a biological component. I never thought to study soulmarks in any realm except Asgard and Vanaheim. And of course the Vanir are genetically identical to the Aesir. And it’s possible that in a cross-species bond, the behavior of the one species’ soulmarks would overpower the other species’ soulmark behavior.” She turns to Jane Foster. “I would love to speak more to you of this,” she says.

“Another time,” says Frigga, not unkindly but with strain apparent in the set of her mouth. “Sif, dear, you want to break off the betrothal?”

Sif nods. “It’s clear that these two love each other, and the more I think of it, it’s clear that he and I never did. Not in the way that people ought to if they’re going to wed.” She hesitates, looking for the right words. “He and I suit each other perfectly in theory; it makes sense that we would bond. But sometimes things that makes sense in theory don't turn out the way one would expect in practice. And Thor and I seem to be one of those things.” She trails off when she sees Frigga's expression soften; they won't have to work hard to convince the queen. “Thor should marry Jane Foster, if they want to marry,” she concludes.

“Yeah, about that,” Jane Foster says in a small voice.

Everyone turns to look at her. “You don’t want to marry me?” Thor asks, and Sif’s never seen him look so heartbroken.

“I mean, I’m not saying no,” she says quickly, her gaze darting around at everyone else in the room, probably embarrassed that they’re all hearing this. “I love you! But when I got your bond-mark, I thought you were a British tourist! That’s very different from agreeing to move to _ space _ and become some kind of alien queen.”

“Your being queen is not on the table,” Odin growls.

“Plus I don’t think your dad likes me.”

“But you will love Asgard!” Thor declares. “It is the most beautiful of all the Nine Realms.” And he must truly know her well, because with a little smirk he adds “And imagine the scientific discoveries you can make, if you build on our knowledge” and Jane Foster nearly swoons.

But still she holds firm. “Honestly, I don’t think I want to be queen, or have my children be royalty.”

“You see?” Odin demands. “She does not want to live in Asgard and she does not want to be queen. Not that it would be allowed anyway.”

“Then I don’t want to be king!” Thor declares, and everyone freezes for a moment in absolute shock. “And Jane and I will return to Midgard.” He seems as surprised as anyone at his declaration, but then his expression grows thoughtful, and he smiles a little, as though he is coming to like the idea. “To be honest, as much as I’d like the glory and power, I’ve always thought being king sounds like a great deal of work. I’m much happier as a warrior.” And he turns to Jane Foster. “And I’d be much happier with Jane anyway.”

“But she is Midgardian,” Frigga reminds him gently. “She has perhaps sixty years left. Would you truly be happy throwing away millennia as the Allfather for the sake of sixty years with this woman?”

“Yes,” says Thor, with such heartbreaking simplicity and sincerity that despite everything, Sif’s heart goes out to this odd, mismatched couple.

“You would leave the throne of Asgard vacant?” Odin demands.

“Of course not,” says Thor reasonably. “Give it to Loki. He’d probably make a better king than me anyway. He actually paid attention in our lessons.”

Loki shifts, perhaps surprised at being so addressed, but Sif is not sure what he thinks of all this, as his face is as impassive as it has been all this while.

“I’ve half a mind to take you up on that offer,” Odin threatens. “Just to call your bluff.”

“It’s not a bluff,” says Thor with a small but growing smile. “This is the most sure I’ve felt about anything in hundreds of years.”

“You’re sure you want to abdicate for me?” asks Jane Foster in a small voice.

“Abdicate! Yes! That’s the word I’m looking for.” He looks up at his father. “I, Thor Odinson, do hereby formally . . . what’s the word?”

“Renounce?” Loki suggests after a moment, and Odin shoots him a glare.

“Exactly! I hereby formally renounce my claim on the throne of Asgard, for both myself and my offspring, now and forever.” Thor grins. “Does that take care of it?”

That does not take care of things by a long shot; Odin finally storms down off the throne to argue with Thor, and looks so intimidating and angry that kind-hearted Frigga steps in front of Jane Foster, as though to shield her from the Allfather’s rage.

Eir comes over to examine Sif’s arm and quietly exclaim over the strangeness of a soulmark disappearing; she confirms that she has never heard of it happening among the Asgardians or the Vanir. “But perhaps it’s just that none have ever formed an attachment to a Midgardian before.”

Eventually Eir excuses herself, and Sif lingers awkwardly on the outside of the little shouting match, wondering if she should leave as well or if that might rouse the Allfather’s ire even more. Before she can decide, Loki makes his way off the dais and comes to stand beside her. “Are you all right with all this?” he asks quietly.

She does like him best when he isn’t wearing his mask of indifference.

“I assure you, I am not distressed over this outcome,” she says. “In fact, for the first time in centuries . . . I feel like my life is back in my own hands.”

Loki examines her a long moment, then nods. “Then I’m glad for you.”

And Sif smiles down at her empty wrist.

. . . . . .

“Do you swear to guard the Nine Realms?”

“I swear.”

“And do you swear to preserve the peace?”

“I swear.”

“Do you swear to cast aside all selfish ambition, and to pledge yourself only to the good of the realms?”

“I swear.”

“Then on this day, I, Odin Allfather, proclaim you, Loki Odinson, prince regent of Asgard. Arise.”

It stings a little to know that Odin would have made Thor king outright, but will only make Loki regent, until he has proven himself. But still, Loki never thought to be here: standing before the population of Asgard, hearing them cheer for him. Of course he imagines they would have cheered louder were it Thor standing before them, but still! He is prince regent of Asgard, and should he prove himself, he will be king. One of his secret childhood dreams is coming true. What other incredible events could be coming his way?

He imagines Thor would be playing the crowd here, pleasing them with laughter and posturing, but that’s not who he is; since Odin informed Loki he would be handing the realm over to him, Loki has spent a great deal of time thinking about what kind of ruler he wants to be, and the thing he is most sure of is that he will be a very different king than Thor would have been.

So instead he simply stands dignified and upright in his finest ceremonial armor and his great horned helm and smiles around at the people. To his left, on the stairs leading up to the dais, stand the Warriors Three, included as a sign that the warriors of Asgard support their new prince regent. Which is a laugh; of course they don’t support this reversal. The Three always tolerated him for Thor’s sake, but with Thor six months gone, their underlying lack of respect for Loki has bubbled up to the surface. One of the first goals he has set for his regency is to earn their admiration and respect, to keep the military arm of the realm loyal and in good working order.

So instead he looks to the right, where he sees his mother and Sif standing together. His mother looks teary-eyed; he hopes it’s seeing her younger son crowned, and not missing her older son, that moves her to tears. Sif looks stunning in her ceremonial armor, the short sleeves showing her bare wrist. She is smiling at him, broad and genuine, that stunning smile that always makes his heart skip a beat; along with the queen, Sif has been more supportive of Loki’s ascension to the throne than any other in the realm.

And that sustains him. Even if the cheering is a little less enthusiastic than it would have been for Thor, even if the faces all around him are showing dutiful and cautious optimism rather than genuine excitement, he has his mother, and he has Sif.

That night Odin slips into the Odinsleep, having held it off as long as possible to prepare for Loki’s coronation. Frigga and Loki are there, of course, along with several high-ranking members of the court. And the most prominent warriors in the realm are there as well: the Three and Sif. Loki had wondered if he’d see less of her after Thor returned to Midgard; after all, she is no longer his future sister-in-law. But Frigga has gone out of her way to continue to include Sif in family functions; he doesn’t understand his mother’s reasoning, but he is glad of it—glad to keep Sif’s throaty laugh and her heart of fire and her fierce moral uprightness in his life.

“My son,” Odin breathes not long before he slips away, and reaches one hand out to the new regent.

Loki takes that hand more readily than he might have six months ago. Odin has made strides to repair their relationship since Thor’s abdication and subsequent banishment, and Loki receives these efforts with mixed feelings. The child he once was is thrilled to finally receive the fatherly attention that he has been missing for so long. The adolescent he once was resents that the attention only came after Thor fell from favor and from inheritance.

As though he’s heard his thoughts, Odin continues, “I know I have not always been what you need, and I am sorry.”

Startled, Loki tightens his hand around his father’s.

“Protect the realm. Be wise and prudent; take counsel before making decisions. Listen to the goodness I know is in your heart.”

There’s a strange lump in Loki’s throat when he answers, “I will do all you’ve said, Father.”

The tiniest hint of a smile softens the exhausted lines of the Allfather’s face. “I know. I trust you.”

He reaches his other hand out for Frigga, who takes it quickly. “I will see you soon, my wife. Never doubt that I love you.”

“And I you,” murmurs the queen, and Loki almost wants to look away from such an intimate moment.

And in the last moment before he falls into the Odinsleep, the king turns his gaze back to Loki. “And I love you, my son.”

It’s been so long since Loki heard those words from his father that he can do little but stare.

Odin’s eyes slip closed. The Odinsleep is upon him.

The various courtiers and warriors slowly file from the room, most pausing at the foot of the bed to incline their heads respectfully at the royal family. Sif is the last to leave, and her quiet smile lingers in the air long after she’s gone.

Frigga and Loki sit in silence a while, still holding Odin’s hands. “Are you ready for what’s to come?” she asks finally.

“I imagine that anyone who truly feels ready to take a throne does not fully comprehend what sitting on that throne requires.”

A wry smile twists her lips. “Well said.”

“But I have tried hard to prepare. I have made a list of priorities for the first ninety days of my regency; I would appreciate your feedback on it.”

“Of course.” She hesitates. “And are you . . . happy? You have been quiet lately, my son, and even more inscrutable than usual. I am struggling to guess at your where your mind is at.”

He grins at her. “And you have always been able to read me like a book. If you cannot guess at my feelings, I have been inscrutable indeed.” He hesitates, considering her question. “I am happy,” he says. “I believe I can do a great deal of good as regent. But I wish it did not come at the expense of Thor’s inheritance. I wish . . .” The warmth in her eyes encourages him to press on. “I wish Father had not started granting me his favor only after Thor had lost it. I wish he had not seen my merit only after Thor was out of the picture.”

“Oh, my son,” sighs Frigga. “Your father has always loved you, and always seen your worth. But you are not wrong that he was so preoccupied with preparing Thor to rule Asgard that he failed to pay you the attention he should have.” She shakes her head. “For which I must apologize as well; I saw it, and said nothing.”

“You need apologize for nothing,” he assures her. Again a silence falls, until Loki says in a small voice, “I miss Thor. I did not expect to. Not this much.”

A sad little smile touches her lips. “As do I. But sometimes your children leave you, when they grow. I have been fortunate for many centuries to have my two sons by my side. Now it is time to let Thor spread his wings, and find his own path.”

“And you still have me,” he assures her. He hesitates—this feels strangely disrespectful to say in front of his father, even if that father is in the Odinsleep—then adds, “And perhaps in time we can rethink Thor’s banishment.”

Frigga’s smile warms. “I was hoping you’d say that. Although I think we should give it a while; the return of the former heir may cause a division in the people’s loyalty. We must give them a chance to truly embrace your regency before we throw in such a complication.”

“Excellent advice,” smiles Loki. “I will be fortunate to have your guidance and counsel behind the throne. I can certainly use the help.”

“It has been my privilege for many years to be a guiding voice to the king of Asgard,” she smiles. “I only hope that you can find a queen whose counsel you value, as your father has valued mine.”

Ah, yes, a queen: an issue that has been at the back of Loki’s mind for months, ever since Thor’s abdication. It is acceptable for a prince to go unmarried, but he knows a king will be required to take a wife sooner rather than later—and as long as he doesn’t mess things up too badly, it is all but guaranteed that he will be named king before long. He will need someone to bear him an heir; he will need someone to stand by his side and be a symbol to the people. The Allmother is as revered and loved a position as the Allfather, after all. And there are many ladies of the court, and among the Vanir, who would fill that position admirably.

But he always runs into an obstacle: he will be expected to wait to wed until he forms a soul bond with someone. And if they wait for that, they will wait forever, for his wrist is already occupied.

Frigga seems to have taken his silence as discomfort. “I know your soulmark has not yet appeared, but do not despair.” She hesitates. “And if one doesn’t appear—well, it’s not _ entirely _unheard of to marry without soulmarks. Ask and Embla did, you’ll recall.”

“Yes, and you know how people responded to that,” says Loki. “People still think them mad for going against fate.”

“True,” Frigga acknowledges. She hesitates. “Still, what if you were to truly fall in love with someone who doesn’t bear your mark?”

Loki fights back a flinch as her arrow hits dangerously close to his heart. “That seems unlikely.”

Her answering shrug is just a bit too casual. “But possible.”

He narrows his eyes at her. “What is it you’re not saying?” He can’t read her quite as well as she can read him, but still, he knows when she’s being careful in her speech.

She smiles at being caught. “Only that I’ve been thinking: Tyr and Gná weren’t entirely pleased that their daughter will no longer be queen. But since her bond with Thor is gone . . .”

But Loki is already shaking his head. “Her bond with Thor may be gone, but she’s still never bonded with me. She could now—her wrist is blank. But she hasn’t.” That old feeling of hurt and rejection bubbles up in his chest. “We’re not meant to be.”

His mother gives him a small, sympathetic smile. “I notice your objection has nothing to do with a lack of feelings for her.”

Loki simply regards her gravely.

“Thank you for not attempting to lie your way out of this,” she says, then smiles a little. “Especially since it would be useless. I’ve seen how you are when you’re around her.”

Something tightens in Loki’s chest. “It doesn’t matter. She could have bonded with me, and didn’t. Clearly we are not destined to be together.”

“You wouldn’t even consider—”

“No,” he says firmly. Because it would be foolish to go against fate, and if they were meant to be together, then fate or Yggdrasil or wherever these soulmarks come from would notice that he’s had her stupid name on his stupid arm for seven hundred stupid years and that her arm is finally bare, and it would write his name on her wrist and then they would both finally, _ finally _ know that they are destined for each other—

So unless that unlikely day arrives, he’s not going to be the sad lesser prince with the sad one-sided soulmark who chases desperately after the girl who has clearly never loved him the way he loves her. This is the right choice. This is how it has to be.

His heart is heavy as iron in his chest.

. . . . . .

“I’m just saying, are we certain?” Fandral asks reasonably. “I’m more than willing to put myself in danger’s way. I just need to feel certain that the quest is necessary.”

Sif feels a great deal of satisfaction as her sword gets past his defenses and strikes his armor with a resounding thwack. “Since when?” she demands incredulously. “Was it necessary when we sought out that wyrm in Vanir? Because I distinctly remember that being for treasure and glory. Neither of which is quite ‘necessary.’”

“Or the troll in Kortin,” Volstagg agrees from the edge of the practice ring.

“Or just last year, when we went to Nidavellir—”

“Yes, but we chose to undertake those quests.” Fandral spins gracefully away and comes up with his sword dangerously close to Sif’s neck. “We do not choose this outing.”

Sif parries with both sword and word. “No quest ordered by the throne of Asgard is voluntary. Or are you forgetting your oath?”

“I know my oath,” Fandral pants, and Sif basks in knowing that he is struggling to keep up with her. “It’s just . . . well, I made my oath to . . .”

“To the throne,” Sif reminds him tightly. “Not to Odin, but to his position. That’s what this is really about, I assume? About Loki?”

Sif’s advance leaves Fandral too distracted to answer, but Hogun pipes up, “When his assignments put our lives at risk, yes.”

“We are warriors in service of Asgard,” Sif snaps. “All our assignments put our lives at risk.” A quick twist of her arm disarms Fandral, and her shoulder in his chest knocks him to his back.

“I yield,” Fandral grumbles from where he’s sprawled out on the ground. “But Hogun is right. I am more than willing to die for Asgard, when it is in service of a king I love and revere. But for a regent I barely trust—”

Sif takes his hand to pull him to his feet. “Loki has been an excellent regent,” she reminds them firmly. “In eight months he has strengthened our diplomatic relations with Nidavellir, fortified our defenses . . .”

“And sponsored all those arts programs,” Volstagg points out cheerfully. “My Ava’s joined the children’s choir. It’s adorable.”

“So you’re as enamored of our new prince regent as Sif?” Fandral asks, brushing sand from his armor.

Volstagg shrugs. “Odin put him in charge, didn’t he? And I swore an oath to serve the throne. Besides, like she said, he’s done a good job so far.”

“Why do you dislike him so?” Sif asks Fandral.

Fandral’s answer is simple and irritating. “Because it should have been Thor on that throne.”

“And Thor abdicated,” Sif reminds him. “You can hardly blame Loki for the fact that his brother decided that being king sounded like too much responsibility and he preferred his Midgardian to a life of public service.”

But Hogun has a more compelling argument. “But also, we know Loki. Probably better than anyone else does, other than the queen. So we know what he can be like. It truly never worries you, Sif? To remember Loki’s mischief and discontent and resentfulness, and think of him being king?”

He’s not wrong, entirely; sometimes Sif remembers the boy Loki was, cutting off her hair while she slept and smirking unrepentantly when asked why he did it, and worries. Sometimes she remembers the darkness, the resentment she used to glimpse in him, and worries. But only rarely, these days; perhaps it is the chance to prove himself as regent, or perhaps it is simply maturity, but Loki has lost most of that darkness she used to see in him. “Once he was what you say,” she agrees evenly. “But I think most of us would not fare well if we were judged today solely on how we behaved as children.”

“Well said,” chortles Volstagg. “Remember what a little brat you were when you were younger, Fandral? Should you like us to judge you still on that?”

Fandral’s grimace states that no, he wouldn’t like that.

“He is much improved,” Sif states firmly. “And he is intelligent and thoughtful, and heeds counsel. I think he will be a great king someday.”

“Thank you,” comes a voice behind them, and the warriors jump and turn to see the prince regent himself, regarding them with an amused look.

Fandral bows. “Your highness.” The others quickly follow suit.

“What brings you here?” Sif asks, wondering how much he heard, and pleased to reflect that she said nothing to be ashamed of. “We haven’t seen you in the training yards since your coronation.”

“Yes, my mother pointed that out. She insisted I come for a bit of exercise, and to keep my skills sharp.”

The warriors all exchange glances.

“What?”

“Odin never practiced in the yards,” Volstagg says. “Even when he was young. It’s against the law to strike the Allfather for any reason, even sparring.”

“Yes, that sounds like a law he would pass,” mutters Loki. “Well, fortunately for you I am not the Allfather.”

So they take turns sparring with them, at first too hesitant to really strike hard, but soon enough they have all lost themselves in the activity. It is the perfect activity to lower the wall Hogun and Fandral still keep between themselves and their new prince regent, Sif thinks, for by the end, the usually immaculate Loki is sweaty and disheveled, just like the rest of them, and he takes it with good humor when he is beaten. When he manages to knock Hogun’s legs out from under him, Fandral has softened enough toward him to laugh and clap him on the back. When the Three head inside, they are much more cheerful than when they started.

Sif and Loki stay outside, having decided to practice archery for a while; Loki has always had something of a knack for it, and Sif needs to keep in practice.

“So Fandral and Hogun still do not trust me?”

Sif smiles. “Recall that they know what you were like as a child.”

He makes a face. “Fair enough.” And then he hesitates, his brow furrowing. “I am sorry if defending me puts you at odds with your friends.”

But Sif just waves a dismissive hand. “We have been at odds before, and we will be again. We always get over it. The bonds we’ve forged on the battlefield are too strong to be broken by petty squabbles.”

“You are fortunate to have such companions.”

“More than I realized,” says Sif, half to herself, as she thinks over the past year.

She looks up to see Loki looking curiously at her, and she wishes that she’d said nothing. But now he’s asking, “What is it?” and she can’t lie to her sworn liege.

So she admits, “There was talk, after Thor’s abdication.”

“I know,” Loki grumbles.

“About you,” she agrees. “But also . . . about me.”

His brow furrows, and she gives in and tells him all.

“There were people who . . . had a few things to say about my being the only Asgardian in recorded history to have her soulmate lose his soulmark. About how I had lost Thor’s interest and his affection, and how Asgard had subsequently lost its crown prince.” She sighs. “And, of course, there has been talk for many centuries about my unfeminine pursuits, and whether my warrior ways would allow me to be a suitable queen, but my proximity to the royal family shielded me from any unkindness; few would dare insult the future Allmother, and the beloved crown prince’s intended, to her face. Once I lost the protection of my betrothal to Thor . . .” She smiles a little. “I believe that is why your mother has kept me so close since Thor left. To send the message that I am still in favor with the royal family, and not in disgrace for losing Thor’s attention and leaving him susceptible to falling in love with a Midgardian and giving up his throne.”

And now Loki looks upset, subtly so; most of his emotions are subtle, but centuries of growing up with him almost as a brother has taught Sif well to read his moods. So she hastens to finish her story. “But the Three have remained fiercely loyal to me all along. Many’s the man who’s sported a black eye or bruised ribs for daring to speak ill of me behind my back. I would not have expected less of the Three, but it was comforting to have my trust in them rewarded.”

That does seem to relieve Loki. “And those who speak ill of you to your face?”

She gives him a fierce grin. “I don’t need the Three’s help to deal with them.”

Loki is smiling quietly now, and he pulls an arrow from his quiver and notches it into place on his bow. But then his hands grow still. “I am pleased you have had their support, and my mother’s,” he says. “And I am sorry that it did not occur to me that you might be suffering backlash from what happened.” He hesitates. “I do not know what good my support will do, as I am still not entirely accepted by the people. But I swear to you, I will stand with my mother in making clear to the people of Asgard that you are still highly favored by the royal family.”

Sif feels a warmth growing in her chest. “Thank you.”

And then, perhaps feeling, as Sif does, that the conversation has gotten surprisingly serious, Loki returns his attention to his archery. He draws the string back to his ear and releases it; the arrow flies in a perfectly steady line to bury itself just half an inch above the center of the target. She thinks of teasing him by asking if he used magic to shoot so straight, but he is already a bit grave; she doesn’t know if he’s in the mood for teasing.

“I forget how good you are at this,” she smiles. “Perhaps we should bring you along to be our archer.”

She means it as a jest, but Loki’s face falls. “This mission I’ve given you . . . do you think it dangerous?”

His tone is truly worried, and she blinks in surprise. “I foresee no danger. The Gremeians are our allies, and we have a great deal of practice dealing with trolls.”

Though he nods, the look on his face doesn’t change. “Please be careful.”

A smile touches her face. “Are you worried about lowly soldiers, your highness?”

He fixes her with a sardonic look; she knows how he feels about her calling him that. “Of course I am. What kind of ruler would I be if I were not?” The archery is forgotten as he turns to her fully, brow furrowed, fingers fiddling restlessly with the grip on the bow. “I have never sent anyone into battle before,” he explains, and admits, “It is causing more anxiety than I expected.” There’s a moment of hesitation as he looks down at his hands. “It would be terrible to lose you under any circumstances,” he says quietly, still gazing down like the bow fascinates him. “But to be the one who sent you to your death . . . I don’t think I could bear it.”

She stares. That almost sounded . . .

His fidgeting stops for a moment, and then he looks up, his face calm, and adds, “You and the Three are very important to this realm. I have no desire to lose you to trolls.”

Oh. Yes, she supposes that makes sense. More sense than what she’d thought he was saying. Because why would he be saying such a thing?

“We are equal to a few hill trolls,” she says, forcing her mind back to the present. “You needn’t worry.”

“And yet I do,” he says with a smile that seems forced. He shakes his head. “I hardly know how my father bore it. To hold someone’s life in your hands, to use someone’s loyalty to their realm to send them to what might be their death—it is a heavy burden that I did not expect.”

And Sif looks at Loki, standing tall and slender in the golden sunlight, his handsome face set in lines of concern and thought, the weight of the crown almost a visible burden on his shoulders, and can’t believe this is the same boy who cut her hair and tricked Thor by turning himself into a snake. “We have all sworn loyalty to this realm, and to the throne,” she assures him. “And we did so knowing what it might entail. And with your permission, I’m going to repeat this conversation to the Three.”

Loki looks baffled. “To show them my weakness?”

“To show that you take the burden of our loyalty as a very serious responsibility, to be treated with the utmost care. They will be glad to hear it.”

He looks surprised. And then he smiles. “You leave tomorrow?” he asks.

“First light.”

“Well, I have something for you.” He makes a gesture with his hand, and plucks a book from thin air or a pocket dimension or wherever he hides things with his magic. She accepts it with confusion and he smiles. “The geography, climate, and flora and fauna of Gremeia,” he says. “Because only a fool would rush into battle without doing all they can to prepare.”

That he remembered a conversation they had a century ago moves her strangely, and there’s a shyness to her movements, a fluttering feeling deep in her belly, as she accepts the book from him. Their fingers brush and she feels it with her whole arm. “Thank you,” she says softly.

His expression once again grows pained. “Stay safe,” he bids her quietly.

They do, of course; they are Asgard’s greatest warriors, and they are more than a match for a few hill trolls. Even Sif’s distraction over that conversation with Loki, and over her response to it, can’t lessen their might. The Three are pleased to hear how seriously Loki takes his responsibility in commanding them, and when Fandral sees how grateful the Gremeian government is, he admits that this was a good move for strengthening Asgard’s relationship with the kingdom and that Loki was right to send them. All told, it is an excellent outing.

And when they return, Loki meets them in front of the palace, relief evident in every line of his body. His eyes meet Sif’s, and there’s that feeling in her belly again.

That’s an interesting development.

. . . . . .

The year that follows is bittersweet for Loki Odinson, prince regent of Asgard. Being regent is far more difficult than he anticipated, for there are constant demands on his time and his attention, a constant stream of decisions that need to be made and audiences that need to be heard and diplomats that need to be placated, and scarcely has one fire been put out when another one springs up. He’s had little time for reading or study or spellcasting, or even just for relaxing, and it is beginning to wear on him. And all the responsibilities of ruling are exacerbated by the fact that there are still a few that would prefer Odin or Thor on the throne, and are uncooperative or openly hostile because of it.

On the other hand, there are many joys and pleasures associated with this life. The ruler of Asgard enjoys many benefits indeed (some days he reflects that it’s good his mother is here, for he suspects that without her good influence he might be tempted to enjoy the perks of kingship too much). But more than that, he believes that some of the changes he has implemented have been long needed, and the gratitude he is privileged to see on the faces of his subjects is reward indeed. Many members of the court and the Einherjar have come to respect the prince regent. He is no longer the lesser prince, the forgotten prince.

And here is another joy of his new life, entering his study with a smile on her face. The Lady Sif has become a member of his (very small) inner circle, an unofficial confidante and military advisor to him, so much so that he would appoint her to a court position if he thought she’d accept it. It all began after that first mission that he sent her and the Warriors Three on. He’d been looking for ways to keep his promise to show Asgard that she is still highly favored by the royal family, and the chance came the next time a military action was needed; she’d been so helpful in talking through his concerns the first time that he officially asked her to consult with him on the action. And then again, and so on. In the meantime he has kept up his training, and now hardly a day goes by where she does not visit him in his throne room or in his study to talk through his latest worries and concerns with him, or he does not visit her in the training fields to spar and train. And in the evenings, as a high-ranking warrior, she sits at the head table when they eat, and he appreciates that she stands as a buffer between him and the mercenary ladies of the court who have finally decided that he’s worth paying attention to, now that he is to be king.

He knows the looks he and Sif get; he knows what his mother is thinking. But he refuses to alter his behavior. He benefits immensely from her level-headed advice and calming presence; besides, for the first time in his life, he has a real friend, and he is not willing to give that up.

So the guards that follow him everywhere have instructions to always let her pass, which explains how she is striding into his study without being announced.

“Hœnir said I might find you here,” she explains. “Weren’t you supposed to have that meeting with the treasury this afternoon?”

“Jarnsaxa’s husband was injured on a hunting trip.” Loki drops his pen and stretches. “She asked if we could reschedule. I was glad to say yes.”

Sif comes close and looks over his shoulder at the document on his desk: a proposal from Magni about expanding the Einherjar barracks. “And you decided to spend your unexpected free afternoon doing paperwork?”

“It has to get done some time,” he says, and sighs. “I do not understand how my father seemed to spend so much time lounging about. I cannot remember the last time I had a free moment to myself.”

“Undoubtedly that will come in time,” says Sif practically. “Once you are more practiced in ruling. Or once you have learned to delegate better.”

He smiles a little; his reluctance to delegate tasks to others is a source of long-standing debate between them.

“Until then,” she says, “you have me to look out for you. So get up; you and I are leaving.”

He blinks. “Leaving? Where?”

“You decide. But you need a break. You are stressed to the breaking point: I can see it in your face, and in every move you make. You’ll be no good to this realm if you work yourself into illness. And you’ve been given this unexpected afternoon off, so we are going to go use it doing something that you consider relaxing or fun.”

“But—” He gestures at the paper in front of him.

“Your next step would be to tour the barracks yourself and see if it’s as crowded as Magni claims, correct?”

He nods.

“Well, I am there often, and I can assure you: it is, and the expansion is sorely needed. There, I’ve saved you an hour, and we can spend it as we wish.”

Loki hesitates, torn between his duty and the siren song of time alone with Sif.

Wait, what is he saying? That’s hardly a contest at all.

“All right,” he grins up at Sif. “What shall we do?”

They debate several possibilities; Loki is sorely tempted to spend the afternoon spellcasting, as he’s had little time for practice or study lately, but while Sif claims she’d be happy to keep him company while he does, he fears that she would grow bored and leave after a time. Better to pick something she will enjoy as well.

And that’s when he has an idea that will have far more drastic consequences than he currently imagines. “I have it: we should visit Odin’s Vault.”

That does catch Sif’s interest. “We always wanted to visit,” she recalls, a smile growing on her face. “But Odin only ever allowed you and Thor to visit with him, and only that once.”

Loki smiles, pleased at her excitement. “But now that I am regent . . .”

It is decided, and they make their way down to the vault door. Sif is worried that if someone sees Loki, they will pull him into some emergency or discussion, so they make a game of it, trying to sneak their way down to the lower levels unseen; Loki, of course, could use his magic to transport them there, but it has been such a long time since he’s done anything playful, and he’s not willing to end it. Especially not with Sif grinning conspiratorially at him as they hide from passing servants behind a massive statue.

They are successful, and the only people who spot them are the guards at the door of Odin’s Vault. Loki nods at them and they allow him and Sif by—there are certainly advantages to being in charge—and once inside, he dismisses the two guards stationed in the vault itself. They bow and leave, and the door shuts heavily behind them, and he and Sif are left alone in the massive, echoing chamber.

Sif exclaims in wonder as she makes her way down the stairs and through the high-ceilinged room.

“Don’t touch anything,” Loki reminds her as he follows, and she shoots a look at him as though to inform him that she is not an idiot.

“The Warlock’s Eye!” Sif laughs. “That was a battle to remember. And is this the Tablet of Life and Time, I believe?”

Loki happily follows her around for several minutes, examining the artifacts with wonder and awe. But there’s been something itching in the back of his mind since the moment he stepped through the door—a faint call, like a song and a whisper and an icy wind at his back, all at the same time. He’s not surprised; they are in a room full of the most powerful artifacts in the Nine Realms, so it is not that odd that one or more should call out to passersby. 

But the call grows stronger the farther he walks into the room, until he can scarcely resist it anymore. And he can sense, now, where it comes from: from the Casket of Ancient Winters, glowing blue at one end of the vault. He knows this artifact well, it being one that his father told him and Thor a great deal about, the one time he allowed them to come visit.

Why should it be calling to him? And why—he glances at Sif, who is examining a golden gauntlet—is it not affecting his companion at all?

He edges closer to the Casket warily; there’s a voice in his head telling him nothing good can come of this, but his curiosity, and the siren song of the Casket, are louder. There are voices on the wind, whispering in a language he does not understand, and it is beautiful, in its way—beautiful and terrible and as cold as the darkest night of the iciest winter. Something in his blood sings back an answer, something that surges to greet the cold wind, something that moves him to lift his arm and wrap his hand around the handle of the Casket.

A shiver runs through him when his hand touches the Casket, but the cold is familiar, like a childhood friend. And he’s distracted enough by the odd sensation that it takes several seconds for him to realize that his skin is changing.

But changing it is, he finally notices: a blue hue is stealing across his hand and up his wrist, spreading from the point where he’s touching the Casket. And it makes so little sense that he finds himself watching in detached curiosity, as though it is happening to someone else.

As the color steals under his cuff, he pushes his sleeve up to his elbow with his free hand and watches the blue spread over his pale skin. Here something else happens: ridges start to form on his arm, in strange and beautiful patterns. Soon there’s a strange tingling sensation on his neck, and then his face, and he realizes that the change must have reached his head; he reaches out with his free hand and feels the ridges on his cheeks and forehead.

Loki has never seen a Frost Giant himself, but he has seen pictures. He has seen the color of their skin, and the ridges that adorn their bodies. And he releases the Casket of Ancient Winters with a sharp gasp.

“Loki?” Sif asks, turning toward him.

Instinctively he turns toward her (will always turn toward her), before he realizes he shouldn’t, and it’s too late to turn away now; he can see from the way her eyes widen that she’s seen the change in him.

She steps forward, her brow furrowed. “Loki—”

Fear and confusion and shame war within him; as she steps forward he steps back, instinctively, and bumps the plinth that the Casket sits on. The last thing he wants to do is touch it again, and he jumps away. His hand goes to his face, the ridges are still there, though smaller, it seems.

It is all too much, and he vanishes himself away to Frigga’s rooms.

He needs answers.

(He needs to be far away from Sif until this—this _ aberration _ goes away.)

Frigga is reading a book when he appears, and she turns to him with a smile—until she sees the color of his skin. And then her face grows grave, and she sets her book aside.

“My son,” she begins, but Loki interrupts, his reply little more than a tangled sob in his throat.

“_Am _ I your son?” he demands.

She meets his gaze evenly. “You are, and always will be, and have been for a thousand years,” she says. “But no, you were not born my son.”

He’d been certain that would be her answer, but now that he hears it, he can’t believe or make sense of it. “Then who am I?” he demands.

Frigga hesitates, then gives him a tiny smile. “You are the son of King Laufey.”

Laufey? The source of the terror and devastation that swept across the Nine Realms? That is his true father? This is far worse than he had imagined. “How?” he demands, his much-vaunted eloquence abandoning him and leaving him capable only of single words. “Why?”

Frigga stands and takes a step toward him, and he instinctively takes a step back, and feels guilt flood through him when she looks hurt by his movement. But he can hardly help it, when the walls of his tidily constructed life are falling down around him.

“Odin found you,” Frigga says calmly, her hands folded in front of her. “At the end of the war with Jotunheim. Laufey had abandoned you as his army retreated, and Odin couldn’t just leave you there to die. So we brought you back to Asgard with us. I had spent several months at the battlefront with Odin, so it was easy to convince people I had been pregnant and given birth while I was away.” A fond smile plays across her lips. “You were such a sweet child,” she observes. “We loved you immediately. And Thor as well. Your name was one of the first words he learned to say.”

But Loki is in no mood for family reminiscences. “Were you ever going to tell me?” he demands, somehow managing to force the words past the lump in his throat. “Or if I hadn’t touched the Casket of Ancient Winters, would you have let me spend the rest of my life believing a lie?”

And Frigga sighs. “That was a topic of a great deal of discussion between myself and your father. I favored telling you, but your father—”

“He’s not my father!”

Frigga regards him gravely. “Then am I not your mother?”

That is a question he cannot answer in his current state of mind. So he ignores her. “Finally it makes sense why Fath—why _ Odin _ always favored Thor,” he cries out, and notices that the room is getting blurry. “I see why nothing I ever did was good enough for him. How could he love a son who is not his own? Who is in truth the son of his hated enemy?”

“Very easily,” Frigga assures him. “We loved you as we did Thor, from the moment you came into our lives.”

“But how is that possible?” he demands, and the tears that have been gathering in his eyes finally spill over and drip down his face. “How could you possibly love a monster?”

And at that moment, the door bursts open and in runs Sif, out of breath—she is a strong warrior, but the palace is massive and she must have run at incredible speed to reach Frigga’s chambers so quickly. “I’m sorry for bursting in,” she gasps. “But I thought Loki might come here.” Her hazel eyes focus on Loki, who briefly considers turning himself invisible so he doesn’t have to bear the weight of her gaze; he can only imagine the mess he looks, with tears pouring down his face and his expression full of anguish. At least the effects of the Casket have worn off, and he has returned to his Asgardian appearance. “Were you hurt?”

“Hurt?” repeats Frigga calmly when it becomes clear Loki isn’t going to answer.

“That, that thing,” Sif says. “It was making you look like . . .”

“She saw,” Loki explains tightly, and Frigga nods and waves a hand at the door, which closes quietly.

“Come sit down, dear.”

With a glance at Loki—looking for blue skin, he supposes—Sif obeys.

Frigga looks at Loki, who looks away.

And perhaps that is why the queen lies. “The artifact that Loki touched has a strange side effect,” she says. “In certain cases, it can cause those who touch it to change form, to take on the appearance of a Jotun—”

“No,” says Loki harshly. He couldn’t say precisely why the lie sits so ill with him; maybe it’s that there have been enough lies around here. Maybe it’s that after his mother, Sif is the most important person in the world to him, and he will not lie to her. Or maybe it’s that he suddenly fears that Sif will find out the truth sooner or later, and he’d rather it was sooner, because she will inevitably turn away from him in disgust and he’d rather get it over with now than dread it for the next few centuries.

“No?” Frigga raises an eyebrow.

Loki looks at Sif and forces the truth past his lips, his voice still half-choked with sobs. “The Casket showed me for what I truly am. Apparently.”

Sif blinks. “And you truly are . . .”

“A frost giant. A Jotun,” he bites out, and saying it out loud for the first time hits him like a blast of icy wind, and he’s never quite felt this bleak hopelessness in his chest before, not even when he first understood that Sif could never be his. And for good measure, he adds, “A monster. Asgard’s great enemy.”

Sif looks at Frigga, then back at him, her eyes wide and her mouth set in a serious line. “Is this true?”

“It is true that he is Jotun,” Frigga says. “It is not true—it has never been true—that he is a monster.”

Sif’s expression doesn’t change. “How?”

So Frigga tells her the story of Odin finding the baby prince, adding the detail this time that Loki shifted to match Odin’s appearance all on his own; Loki supposes there’s some comfort in knowing that Odin and Frigga haven’t been forcing him to live under an assumed face all these years.

And Loki listens to her retelling and tries to bring his tears under control, embarrassed that Sif should see such weakness in him. But how can he not weep? He has lived a lie all his life, and the truth is that he has never been wanted or loved. His true father had not wanted him—had abandoned him to die in the snow—and his adopted family surely cannot truly love a Jotun. Everything he has ever loved is slipping away from him. His family is not truly his family. He will lose his throne if word of this gets out, for surely Asgard will not tolerate a Jotun prince as its ruler. And he is going to lose Sif—not that he ever truly had her—for when Frigga finishes her explanation, surely Sif will leave this room and never look back, never come to his study to offer advice and companionship, never spar with him, never smile at him across the table—

But Frigga has finished her tale and Sif’s not leaving, not yet, and Loki stares at her as she looks at the queen, then over at Loki, then down at the floor for a moment.

“You didn’t know?” she asks finally, looking up at Loki.

He shakes his head. “Not until I touched the Casket.”

Sif nods slowly, her brow furrowed—until one of her eyebrows quirks up in what looks almost like a teasing expression. “Then we had better make certain that you never touch it again. At least not if anyone is around.”

Loki is sufficiently surprised by this response that he can do nothing but stare. Sif looks at him a while, waiting for a response that is not coming, then finally turns to Frigga. “What do you intend to do about all this?”

“Apologize to my son,” she says evenly. “Ensure he knows that I do not love him any less than I love Thor. And then continue to support his reign as regent.” And then she looks up at Loki. “If that is still what you want, my dear.”

And to Loki’s immense surprise, Sif nods. “My thoughts exactly.”

“Your thoughts exactly?” Loki echoes loudly, forgetting to keep his strong emotions hidden, and furiously scrubbing away the tear stains on his cheeks. “You would propose to keep secret that the throne of Asgard is occupied by a Jotun? A Jotun prince who wasn’t even of enough value to his own people that they’d let him live? The people would riot, if they knew.”

“Then we shall ensure that they do not know,” Frigga says. “Or perhaps we push the notion of reconciliation with the Jotuns for a century or two, and when public opinion sides with the Jotuns again, we reveal the truth.”

Loki looks at Sif, who assures him, “I will take this secret to my grave, if you ask it of me.”

And he looks at Frigga, then back to Sif. “How are you this calm?” he explodes, his throat growing thick with tears once more. “Frost Giants are monsters. They are our enemy! The war with Jotunheim killed your father’s first wife! Surely, to honor Tyr and Heimdall’s loss, you must consider my people your sworn enemy.”

“Your people are the Asgardians,” Sif says firmly. “You had no hand in the war, and you have been raised among us. Just listen to yourself! 'They are _our_ enemy.' You are Asgardian. And your heart knows it.”

Loki wants to believe her. But there’s been a strange power thrumming through him since he touched the Casket, a low hum beneath the usual buzz of his magic—one that’s always been there, he’s starting to suspect, but that he never noticed or realized the significance of. And acting on pure instinct, he grabs hold of that power and pulls, and he feels the strange tingling that tells him that he is Jotun again.

“Am I?” he demands unsteadily, and his eyes are stinging with tears again. “Am I Asgardian?”

Neither woman reacts with the horror he expects. “You are my son,” says Frigga. “Raised on Asgard, crowned prince regent of the realm.”

And Sif stands from the sofa where she sits, walking up until her face is mere inches from his. Instinctively he jerks away from her; he’s heard the stories of the dangers of touching a Jotun’s skin, and in case it’s true, he does not want to hurt Sif.

But Sif is not deterred. She examines his face for a long moment, while he stands there humiliated that she should see him this way—and humiliated that his eyes are still shiny with tears. And then she announces, “Your eyes are the same.”

He blinks in surprise, and a tear tumbles down his cheek.

“They are red,” she concedes. “But beyond the color, they are the same. Your face is the same. Your voice is the same. And I believe your heart is the same.”

He swallows hard. “I am a monster.”

“You are Loki,” she says firmly. “You are my prince, and more than that, you are my dearest friend. I will not stand idly by and listen to anyone say such terrible things about my dearest friend.” And then she smiles. “Not even that friend.”

And her words are so sincere—so _ Sif_—that something in him cracks, and his defensive posture slips and he drops his head and covers his face with his hand. The new buzzing of his Jotun magic fades into the background again, and as he slips back into his Asgardian form, he realizes that his body, his magic, consider his Asgardian form his default.

And he drops his hands and heaves a shuddery sigh.

Sif touches his shoulder gently, and he looks up at her just in time to see her smile and pull him into her arms. She has never touched him this way before, and he has never been so aware of her before—of every place she’s touching him, from her hands on his back to her chest against his to her chin resting on his shoulder. For a moment he is overwhelmed by the delight of it, and then the comfort that she is offering finally registers with his addled brain, and he breathes another shaky sigh and gathers her close to him, hoping that if he holds her tightly enough, perhaps the rest of the world will disappear.

(If he’s holding her too tightly, she says nothing.)

(And if he shakes a little with muffled sobs, she says nothing.)

And when he finally loosens his grip, he looks over at Frigga—at his mother—and holds out a hand to her. She hurries over with a haste not usually seen in the queen.

And he embraces her too.

. . . . . .

Sif is surprised not to see Loki readying himself in front of the mirror in his dressing room; the prince regent is fastidious and a little vain when it comes to his clothing and hair, especially when he is to make a public appearance. But the surprise lasts only until she remembers that this is his spellcasting afternoon, and perhaps he has kept to that schedule, despite the eventful morning he had. Sure enough, when she makes her way to the conservatory, his personal bodyguards are standing outside.

They let her through without comment, and she enters the conservatory to find Loki focusing intently on a large book with yellowed pages, muttering to himself; she has heard his warnings about not interrupting a casting in progress a hundred times now, so she says nothing, just stands and waits for him to acknowledge her presence.

In truth she does not mind waiting; she enjoys watching him in action, seeing the power he commands and the quickness of his mind, and more than that, she’s happy to see him so happy. In the days after his discovery of his true parentage, Loki was more harried and on edge than ever before—which was alarming, given how harried and on edge he’d been for the first year of his regency—as he tried to see to his responsibilities while trying to come to terms with his heritage.

Finally Frigga had stepped in. She insisted that Loki begin to delegate some responsibilities—and persisted until he finally gave in—and she insisted that Loki’s secretary Hœnir leave an hour open in his schedule every other day for the prince regent to spend as he likes. Loki had struggled a great deal at first to be comfortable not working during that hour, until his mother suggested he use it to work on his spellcasting. This he finally agreed to, and it has been extraordinary to see how quickly his mood has lifted and his anxiety has lowered. His mother had known best, as she always does: Loki needs time to relax occasionally, and nothing relaxes him more than magic. This new schedule has been employed for the better part of a year now, and Loki is happier than Sif can remember seeing him in some time.

So, pleased to see him looking so pleased, she waits longer than perhaps she ought before finally making him aware of her presence. “I hate to interrupt you when you’re enjoying yourself,” she says in a break between spells, “but if you don’t dress for the feast now, you’re going to be late.”

Loki looks up, pleasure and happiness evident on his face, and Sif’s stomach jumps pleasantly, as it always does when Loki looks at her that way. But there’s no time to dwell on it, for he is saying “I had not noticed the time” and standing to accompany her out of the conservatory.

They finish dressing at the same time, and walk together to the great hall for the feast. So Sif is close enough to the prince regent to see with perfect clarity the surprise that washes over his face when his entrance is greeted with a hearty cheer. He still doubts himself, and others’ approval of him, even after all this time as prince regent.

But he has no more reason to fear; his actions today have won over the last naysayers in the court. For who could complain about having a mage on the throne, when that mage is the reason the city is still standing? This very morning, a fast-spreading curse was threatening the north end of Asgard, courtesy of two bored Einherjar disturbing a tomb and bringing a cursed sword back to the city. Only Loki’s quick thinking and immense magical abilities were able to stop the curse and restore the damaged fields and houses. Sif had been standing at Loki’s side through it all, and her heart had swelled with pride at the deafening cheers that had gone up when Loki saved the city, and it had swelled even more when Magni had loudly proposed a feast that night in the prince regent’s honor. Even now, feasts in Loki’s honor are somewhat rare, and it seems an excellent sign to have the head of the Einherjar proposing one.

The feasting goes well into the night, with many toasts proposed. Loki sits at the center of the head table, in the seat that for so long belonged to Odin, with his mother on one side and Sif on the other. (The seat next to Loki is always left open for Sif these days, which started right around the time Loki finally convinced her to accept a court appointment: she is now the regent’s military liaison and advisor, a position she only agreed to take as long as it’s kept to a part-time commitment so she can still spend time training, sparring and questing.)

Even Modi and Thrud come by to congratulate Loki; they are two of the last holdouts of those who still prefer Thor for the throne of Asgard, so their support for the prince regent is notable. (And it means those two are finally showing good sense, really; Thor has been married to his Midgardian for two years now, and when Loki and Frigga contact him, he says that while he’d love to come back for a visit, he has no intention of moving back to Asgard any time soon. So to continue to support Thor’s claim to the throne is something of an exercise in futility.)

And Modi and Thrud aren’t the only ones who want to thank the prince regent in person.

“You were ever so brave, to take on that curse today,” says a breathy voice, and Sif doesn’t even have to look over to see that Freya is hovering by the head chair, styled to perfection as usual.

“And clever!” interjects Ingrid, never far behind her friend.

“Brave and clever,” Freya agrees, her voice pitched low and husky, and it takes all of Sif’s training and self-discipline to keep from throwing her plate at them. 

She’s not jealous; it’s just that she saw Loki’s value well before he was named regent, while these status-seeking connivers care only about his title, and it took them months to set their sights on Loki: months to finally admit that Thor is not coming back, that Odin’s word looks to be final, that Loki will be king, and that if they want to be queen, they had better learn to fawn over the less-popular Odinson brother. Sif is forced to overhear their simpering flirtations at far too many events like this; her only consolation is that Loki is always politely tolerant of but entirely unreceptive of their advances.

. . . all right, so perhaps Sif’s a little bit jealous.

Especially since, from the way he treats her, Loki has clearly never seen her as anything but a dear friend, and anyway, despite their close friendship these days, his wrist is still bare, and so is hers. So unless something drastic happens, someday she will have to watch him marry another, in order to produce an heir, which is a thought that makes her want to punch things. Still, at least it won’t be one of his new sycophants, because their pointed attentions to him haven’t caused a soulmark to appear either.

And there’s a comfort in knowing that even when he does marry, her own place at the court should be secure, and not only because of her official position; as much as he’s becoming closer to all members of the court, especially the ministers of various offices in the palace, he’s truly only close friends with Sif (and the Three, to a lesser extent). Though she hopes his friendships with others will improve in time—he’ll need those relationships as he rules—there’s something very pleasing in the way he relies on her, turns to her, seeks her out. And fine, yes, she’d like to read something more into that than friendship, but she’s also happy enough with their relationship—he’s her dearest friend, just as she is his—that she can be content just being his friend. Mostly.

“But should a king take such risks?” Ingrid asks, wide-eyed, and Sif knows the woman is not this stupid. “What if you were hurt? What would Asgard do?”

“Wait for me to heal,” Loki mutters under his breath, and Sif fights back a smile. But then he says to Ingrid in a patient tone, “I am regent, and it is my duty to protect this realm. I will try very hard to avoid doing so with my life. But if it is required . . .”

“Very admirable,” Freya agrees. “But if something should happen to you, who would become king after you?” She lowers her eyelashes demurely. “I have heard some of the courtiers say, it is time for you to take a wife, and give the realm an heir.”

“That was the purpose of your visit to Vanaheim, was it not?” Ingrid asks. “To see if Lady Astrid would suit?” Her eyelashes flutter. “Is she very pretty?”

The trip to Vanaheim was purely related to diplomacy and trade. Lady Astrid was indeed present for the talks, but she wasn’t—they weren’t—were they?

Sif, fighting back a frown at the unexpected twisting in her stomach, is pleased when Loki looks up and catches her eye, his expression full of carefully concealed amusement. And her heart lifts. Loki will not be taken in by these women, as she had known he would not be.

Still, her mind is much taken up by the conversation, and by both her and Loki’s reactions to it, for the rest of the evening. It has been many months now since she admitted fully to herself that her feelings for him are not at all platonic, and she has wondered, so many times, what might happen if she spoke to him of these feelings.

Always she talks herself out of it, though. If he feels nothing but friendship for her—and given his behavior to her, that seems like a very real possibility—then to speak so could drive a wedge between them. She could lose her place in court; as much as she is accustomed to thinking of herself as belonging only on the battlefield, she has learned she has a knack for, and takes pleasure in, strategizing and advising the throne, and she would be sorry to give it up. Far worse, she could lose her place at his side; she could ruin their friendship, and by extension her relationship with Frigga.

Plus, it’s hard not to be discouraged by the bare skin of his wrist.

Sif is changing her opinions on soulmarks somewhat these days, having become very interested in Eir’s latest research on the subject. After the Jane Foster and Thor event, the healer broadened her research to all residents of the Nine Realms. She has still proven nothing conclusively, but she has come to suspect that the soulmarks are not as straightforward as Asgardians have always thought; perhaps it is not that there is one person that destiny insists that you are meant to be with. And that makes Sif wonder . . .

But still, for her to feel the way she feels when Loki is near, but to have only ever bonded with Thor . . . It’s just hard not to take Loki’s bare wrist as a sign. 

Before long, everyone at the feast is roaring drunk except for the royal family and Sif. Frigga never drinks heavily, and Loki hasn’t done so since his coronation; he explained to Sif that his father had recommended against heavy drinking, for the sake of his image as ruler: it is far easier to stay dignified and behave correctly when one has full command of one’s faculties. Sif thought that very wise advice, and has found herself applying it in her own life since then.

So the regent, the queen, and the shieldmaiden remain quite sober while the Asgardians around them grow drunker, until finally, around ten, Frigga turns to Loki with a smile. “You should slip away,” she recommends. “I know you could use a little extra sleep after all that spellcasting, and this lot is too far gone in their cups to notice you leaving.”

Loki looks as though he will argue, but a massive yawn nearly splits his face in two before he can. “It was a draining spellcasting,” he concedes, and bidding his mother and Sif good night, he slips from the room.

Sif thinks she’s successfully kept her feelings about him leaving from her face, but perhaps she hasn’t because when she glances over at Frigga, the older woman is giving her a thoughtful look.

“I grow restless,” she announces before Sif can say anything. “I believe I shall take a turn about the hall. Will you join me?”

Sif agrees and soon the two women are walking the perimeter of the great hall, mostly ignored by the revelers around them.

“I have been meaning to thank you,” Frigga says after a few moments, “for your friendship to my son. A crown can be a lonely burden to bear, and I know he has benefited greatly from your companionship and counsel.”

“I am pleased to be of service to Asgard,” Sif answers automatically; when Frigga just looks at her with a raised eyebrow, she finds herself adding, “And I enjoy Loki’s company very much.”

“I am glad,” says the Allmother, and then her brow furrows. “I do worry about him,” she confesses. “Not about his future kingship; he is clever and learned, and as long as he remembers to listen to counselors who will keep him wise and steady, he will be fine. But the life of a king is not easy, and he was not brought up to it, not really.” She gives Sif a gentle smile, tinged with sorrow. “Odin and I never thought Loki would be king. Though we taught him statecraft, there are aspects of this life we never prepared him for.”

Sif lifts an eyebrow. “Such as?”

In response, Frigga nods her head at Freya, sitting at a nearby table and flirting outrageously with Forseti; perhaps, Sif thinks uncharitably, the young lord is her plan B, should Loki not succumb to her charms.

“He certainly has grown more popular since being crowned regent,” Sif agrees, trying not to let her distaste show on her face. She hesitates, then can’t help commenting, “I don’t understand what she’s playing at. None of the men she flirts with have her mark; the relationship is going nowhere.”

“Ah,” says Frigga, “but you forget, it is not unheard of for marks to appear decades after a couple first meets. I believe she is hoping to be one of these cases.” They walk on in silence a few moments, and then Frigga adds, “I must confess, I’d hoped you would be one of these cases as well.”

Every nerve in Sif’s body is suddenly on high alert. “What do you mean?”

Frigga pats Sif’s blank wrist in a motherly gesture. “Once Thor’s mark disappeared, I mean,” she explains. “I’d gotten so accustomed to the idea of having you as a daughter someday. And with Loki never having gotten a mark . . .” She sighs. “Perhaps I am a fool. Perhaps you have never looked at my Loki that way.”

One does not lie to the Allmother; it simply cannot be done. Partly out of respect for her position, and partly because the wily queen sees all, and will spot a lie from a mile away. So Sif says nothing and prays Frigga will drop the subject.

No such luck. “Or have you?” she presses, peering more closely at Sif’s face.

Sif is the goddess of war; she is not a blushing schoolgirl. Except, apparently, where Loki is involved. She curses inwardly and resolves to learn how to make herself stop blushing.

“Hmm,” is all that Frigga says, and it’s amazing how she can make that single syllable sound so very knowing.

“The time is long past for Loki and I to bond,” Sif says, keeping her voice steady only through great exertion of will. “If that was something fate held in store for us, it would have happened already. This is not a few decades; we have known each other for centuries.”

“Though, one might point out, you’ve only been unattached for three of those years,” says Frigga reasonably. And then she hesitates. “You are in a difficult situation, my dear. None of us know what the future holds for you, for no one has ever lost their soulmark before. But I want you to know: whatever you do in life, you will have my full support. Should you dedicate your life to your sword, should you search for another soulmate . . . even should you choose to marry without a soulmark.”

Sif darts a glance over at Frigga, but she is examining the stained glass window they’re passing with a casualness that the shieldmaiden doesn’t trust for a moment. “That’s quite a radical view to hold,” she says.

“I have begun to wonder if we put too much stock in soulmarks,” says Frigga with an elegant shrug. “If Thor has taught us anything, it is that they are not infallible. Besides, it is not completely unheard of.” Sif knows she speaks of cases like Ask and Embla, and the tiny handful of other such marriages over the course of Asgardian history. Frigga shrugs. “Just rare.”

That is very close to things that Sif has been thinking lately—things that she hasn’t voiced, for she knows people would react with derision. But when the Allmother says it, it all sounds so reasonable.

“That’s an interesting idea,” Sif says cautiously.

Frigga just smiles beatifically. “Well, as I said, dear, whatever you choose to do, you will have my full support.” And she steps over to speak to a friend, leaving Sif blinking in her wake.

Did the Allmother really just give Sif permission to—

This will require some careful thought and some careful observation. But for the first time in a long time, Sif hopes.

. . . . . .

It takes months of searching for Loki to find even a scrap of information: months of stealing snatches of spare time in the silent and windowless library, sneezing over dusty pages, puzzling over languages dead for millennia. He’s long since given up hope of finding a book of Jotun anatomy and biology in the library, and instead turned his hopes toward finding a book on Jotun culture.

And finally he finds such a book, back from before the war, when Asgard and Jotun were friendly allies; in this book, he finally, _ finally _finds a reference to Jotun soulmarks.

It is an anthropological study of the Frost Giants by a Vanir scholar, written in the ancient Vanir tongue, so Loki requires a translating spell to read it. Sandwiched between chapters on food and clothing and dances is a chapter on courtship and mating rituals, and in that chapter is a section on soulmarks.

Loki reads it, then reads it again, then leans back in his chair and and lets out a long, slow breath of air.

The gist is this: Jotuns get soulmarks, just like Asgardians and the Vanir. But unlike Asgardians and the Vanir, they have the potential for one-sided soulmarks. It’s possible for a Jotun to get someone’s name on their arm, but for that person to form a soul bond with someone else. The owners of these one-sided soulmarks, says the writer, tend to never marry and to die alone.

So that’s it. That’s the answer to the question that has plagued him for seven hundred years.

It is his Jotun birth that explains why he has Sif’s name on his arm, while hers is blank. It is not a mistake or a mutation. And he can’t decide how he feels about it.

It is a comfort, in many ways, to know why he is the way he is—to know that he is not some aberration, that his one-sided mark is not a punishment or a sign of his unworthiness.

But it is also a curse, to know that there is nothing he can do about it. He should not expect to get a new name on his wrist; this one-sided soul bond is part of his very biological makeup, and it will never change. 

He floats in this curious mixture of relief and despair for he knows not how long, and he jumps nearly a foot in the air when he hears Sif’s voice behind him. “So here you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

For once, he is sorry, just for a brief moment, that the guards he has standing outside the door have instructions to let Sif past without question. For he is in no way prepared to speak to her with equanimity right now; at least she will have no idea what he was reading, as she has never been a great linguist and would doubtless not be able to read the ancient Vanir tongue.

“Just taking a moment for study,” he says casually.

“Anything good?” she asks, glancing down at the book.

“Boring, mostly,” he says truthfully, then changes the subject. “You said you were looking for me?”

“Hœnir sent me; he’s feeling very ill and has retired to his room. He hopes you don’t mind moving your meeting until tomorrow.”

And have the morning to himself? “No offense to Hœnir, but that’s the best news I’ve heard all day.”

Sif laughs and leans against the arm of the sofa. “This is the importance of delegation,” she reminds him. “So you don’t get so burned out from all your duties.”

“I’m working on it,” he grumbles. He appreciates Sif and his mother’s concern for him, but it’s hard for him to follow their advice and allow other people to handle responsibilities for him; he has always been the sort to say that the only way to be sure something is done right is to do it yourself. Because other people are mostly morons.

“Well, speaking of delegation, I’ve finished that analysis of Nornheim’s defenses.”

Loki raises his eyebrows. “That quickly? Thank you.”

“I am rather good at what I do,” agrees Sif.

“And so humble,” he says solemnly. “Still. Thank you. For all the work you’ve done these past months.” And he finds himself adding softly, “I couldn’t do this without you.” Sif starts to smile, and he realizes how sentimental and vulnerable that sounded. So he adds, “Everyone else in court is an idiot.”

“Don’t let them hear you say that,” she laughs. “Besides, I think a lot of them have been growing on you, haven’t they? Wasn’t it just yesterday that you told me how much help Forseti had been with the border dispute?”

He rolls his eyes, but his voice is fond as he concedes, “I suppose that a very few of them have become more tolerable.”

And he doesn’t trust her innocent expression for a second when she says, “I’d be curious which annoy you more: the ones who still act like you’re about to turn them into newts, or the ones who fawn over you incessantly.”

She can only be referring to Freya and Ingrid, whose attentions and flirting have only been increasing since that feast in his honor last month, and Loki gives her an exaggerated eye roll and heavy sigh. “Those two are driving me mad,” he says. “No matter what I do to discourage them, they refuse to take the hint that if I do ever marry, it will not be to either of them.”

Sif laughs, but then she hesitates and corrects him, “_When _ you marry. For you shall have to marry eventually, Loki.” 

It’s true, and the thought of it is like a lead weight on his chest. How could he possibly marry anyone when the only woman he can see himself spending his life with is sitting across the table from him, her inner arm pale and blank? 

Loki glances at her, and then away. “I suppose I will,” he says, and he can hear how hesitant he sounds.

Sif is quiet a moment. “I never asked you,” she asks quietly, “about what they said at the feast. Is that truly what the trip to Vanaheim was for? For you to meet Lady Astrid?”

He wonders at the tone of her voice. “The reasons were what we said they were. But yes, meeting Lady Astrid was a secondary purpose that Hœnir insisted on. Such a marriage could have strengthened diplomatic ties with Vanaheim, and apparently he thought we would suit each other. So, he thought he would bring us together and see if our meeting each other triggered any soul bonds.”

“Given the lack of wedding preparations, I assume nothing happened.”

He shakes his head and, seeing that this looks like it might be a long conversation, moves from his rather uncomfortable chair to the sofa; Sif makes herself more comfortable as well, sliding off the arm of the sofa and onto the cushion next to him, so she’s sitting close enough for him to touch.

“I never thought,” she says softly, “about how very complicated soulmarks make it to find a spouse. You can’t simply find someone you think you’ll be happy with and settle down; you have to wander the world, hoping to be fortunate enough to run into the one person you’re destined to be with. I met Thor when I was still a child. But for those who don’t . . .”

“It does seem to be a deeply inefficient system,” Loki agrees. And he means it—how terrible to find yourself in the position she mentioned, with your soulmate nowhere to be found!—but the truth is that he’s thinking more of the way the system has let _ him _down, in particular.

They sit quietly for a few long moments.

“Have you been working magic in here?” she asks finally. “Will you do some for me?”

This was, in fact, not a spellcasting session, but he’s happy to do as she asks. So he responds with an illusion of the great wyrm of Acheron, which appears on the sofa next to her, much smaller than its real-life counterpart, and bounds around the room for a minute before vanishing.

Sif is enchanted. “Fireworks!” she requests, and afterward, “Can you do stars?” She has told him before how much she loves his star illusion, and the thought that something he can do could bring her such delight fills him with warmth every time.

So Loki obediently lifts a hand and gestures, and suddenly the lights in the library blink out and the room is filled with stars, twinkling alongside galaxies and nebulae and supernovas, as though he has transported himself and Sif into the heart of space. Sif reaches out and catches a comet as it passes by. The light from the comet illuminates her face as she stares down at it in wonder, and Loki doesn’t know when she’s ever looked so beautiful. He loves her when she is in her armor, fierce and implacable and vengeful, but he loves her this way too, with her expression soft and stars sparkling in her eyes.

She releases the comet then, tossing it back into the dark sky before her, where it continues on its path through the stars. And then she glances up at Loki, and he realizes he’s staring at her.

But she doesn’t look away, and neither does he; there’s something about the intimacy of this moment—Loki and Sif alone in this library, sitting together on the sofa, close enough to touch, lit only by the low light emitted by the stars and galaxies that surround them—that makes him feel brave.

And maybe she feels the same, because she picks up the thread of their conversation again, speaking words that are far more forward and personal than any person but his mother has ever dared to speak to him. “What will you do?” she asks quietly. “If you never meet the person you’re destined to be with? If you never get a soulmark?”

She has very nearly guessed the very question that haunts him constantly. Only the question he can’t stop thinking about is, “What will you do about the fact that the person you wish you were destined to be with never got your soulmark?” And haunt him it does. Because she’s right, he does need to marry, to produce an heir; without one, and with Thor having renounced the throne on behalf of all his successors, there will be no one to take the throne when he is gone, and Asgard will be plunged into chaos. But how can he ever marry? He will never meet the right woman and have her name appear on his arm. That spot is already occupied.

And soulmarks aside, how could he marry at all, knowing what he is? He has no idea whether an Asgardian and a Jotun could even produce a child together, and to make a Jotun woman queen would surely cause an uprising. He could adopt, and name the child his heir, but that would make his wife curious, and how could he know whether he could trust her with such a potentially explosive secret?

He realizes he’s not answered yet, and he blinks, and looks away. “I’m not sure,” he says. “Though I know that I refuse to put Asgard through a succession crisis.”

She is bold indeed this morning, for she presses on: “Did you ever talk to Eir, as you said you were going to? Did you ever find out how Jotun soulmarks work?”

Ah, and here it is, the question he’s been hoping she’d never think to ask. Sif is doing very well today at making queries that strike uncomfortably close to his heart.

Eir is the only person in Asgard besides Frigga, Sif and the sleeping king who knows the truth of Loki’s birth. She has been able to help him with certain questions he has about himself, and he did indeed ask her about soulmarks (in the vaguest terms possible, of course), but on that topic she could provide no answers; she could find no research that has been done on the topic, and Asgard and Jotunheim are still on such strained terms that to ask a Jotun is out of the question.

Which is why he has been researching the topic himself, here in the most ancient section of the palace’s library. And finally, today, he has an answer. But it’s an answer he finds himself anxious about sharing with Sif.

Still she asked, and while he has no qualms about lying to most people, Sif is an exception. So he finds himself reluctantly answering. “She is uncertain,” he says finally. “But I believe I may have found at least some information on the subject, here in the library. It appears it may be possible for a Jotun to form . . . a one-sided bond.”

“How sad,” murmurs Sif.

“Deeply,” he agrees quietly, with a sideways glance at her. At least it has not occurred to her to ask whether he has ever gotten such a mark; apparently the enchantment on his arm has convinced her entirely. Which is good; he doesn’t want her to know. Truly.

And if he does sometimes wish she knew about his mark, so that at least she’d stop telling him how he needs to get married, those thoughts are easily pushed aside.

They sit in silence for a few moments, and then he asks curiously, “And you? Does Eir think you will ever get another name on your arm?”

“She has no idea; this situation has never arisen before. She suspects it’s because before Thor, no Asgardian had ever spent enough time with a Midgardian to form a bond.”

“And what will you do if you never get such a soulmark?”

“That would not be so terrible,” says Sif. “I have been without one for a few years now, and I haven’t minded it much. But . . .” She rubs her wrist, an unconscious sort of gesture he sees from her often. “I spent my entire life believing I was destined for marriage and motherhood. Now that they have been taken from me . . . the thought of never having them bothers me, I suppose.”

Now that is not something he expected from the fierce warrior. “You would marry, if you got another soulmark? You would have children?”

Sif smiles. “It’s a nice thought, isn’t it? Little Sifs running around? Starting sword fights with everyone they see?”

It is the nicest thought, and it makes him want to weep. He worries his practiced smiles are starting to show strain. “You should,” he says quietly. “Marry. Have children.”

And the thought of watching her with a family—of seeing her give herself to any man but him—lodges like a dagger somewhere in the vicinity of his heart, choking back his breath and sending pain shooting through his chest. Perhaps he’ll have to give her an assignment somewhere, in that case—make her ambassador to Vanaheim, perhaps. Maybe a few centuries away from her will give him a chance to find some kind of peace with the thought of her with someone else.

But maybe Sif finds this topic as troubling as he does, for her brow is furrowing, and suddenly she blurts out, “Do you ever wonder how different things would be if there were no such thing as soulmarks?”

Loki becomes very still.

_ Constantly_, is the answer to that question. If there were no such thing as soulmarks, he would have declared his love to Sif long ago, would have long ago earned the right to hold her in his arms as they sit together on this sofa. Or at least he hopes he would have had the courage to do so.

“Yes.” His voice is quiet.

Sif looks at him a little strangely; perhaps he has let too much truth show through in his voice. “And what would you do, in that case?” she asks.

_ Kiss you_, he thinks, _ right now. Do all in my power to have the chance to kiss you every day for the rest of our lives. _ And with that thought, that feeling, surging through him, he can’t help himself: his gaze drops to her mouth, only for a second.

He hopes it was quick enough for her not to have noticed, but her eyes widen fractionally, and Loki curses himself for being so unguarded. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, turning away from her, waiting for her to demand to know what he’s playing at.

That does not happen. What happens instead is that the sofa shifts beneath him, and something brushes his leg, and he turns quickly to see that Sif has moved closer to him, and her face—

He never thought to see Sif turn that expression on him.

If they were any other couple—if circumstances were different, where soulmarks are concerned—he would have taken that look as encouragement, and he would have kissed her. But this is Sif, his brother’s former intended, whose arm is blank, and who has never shown any interest in him—

She’s not moving, not recoiling from his gaze. The look on her face—glowing, open, inviting—is too much for him to resist. And even as he tries to convince himself that her expression can’t possibly mean what he wants it to mean, his hand moves quite without his permission, to carefully tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

And Sif, against all odds, tilts her head into that touch.

Loki stops breathing. Every nerve ending is alight, and his stomach is a whole flock of butterflies as he unfurls his hand to cup her cheek, expecting at every moment that she will jerk her face away and run him through for his presumptuousness. She does neither. In fact, she leans even further into his touch, and her eyes flutter closed, and Loki is certain that he will not survive this encounter—that his heart will give out from rapid pounding any moment now.

He does not die. So after a moment, he finds himself whispering, “Sif.”

Her eyes open, and that look—even he can hardly mistake—

She leans forward, just a little, and Loki is lost. Forget soulmarks, forget destiny: he finally gives into the desire he’s fought for seven hundred years, and leans in to kiss her.

Her lips are just as soft as he’d thought they would be; War she may be, but she has never seen a reason to let that take away from her femininity. She is warm and soft and yielding beneath his kiss, and for several long seconds, it is sweet and loving and perfect.

But then Sif angles her head and deepens the kiss, and that’s perfect as well: pressing herself up against him, winding her arms around his neck, moving closer until she is practically in his lap. Loki has absolutely never been kissed like this before, and his mind is entirely filled with the sensation of it.

Perfect moments can’t last forever, and in time the kiss slows, and somehow Loki finds himself with his forehead resting against hers, his arms still around her waist, his eyes closed as he tries to catch his breath. And that’s when the real world comes crashing in.

“Sif,” he says, wincing, as he leans back and removes his arms from around her, “I’m so sorry.”

Sif’s eyes fly open, her expression suddenly full of fire. “What?” she demands.

There, she’s angry with him, as she should be, for taking advantage of her so. He wonders why she allowed it—did she perhaps fear angering her future king? “I’m sorry,” he repeats, his chest a pit of misery as he reflects that it’s far worse to get what you want only just for a moment than to never get it at all. “I didn’t mean to force myself on you like that.”

Her expression softens into a wry smile. “Loki, you know me better than anyone. Do you think I’ve ever let a man kiss me against my will?”

Confusion furrows his brow. “But—you must have.”

She meets his gaze steadily, but when she speaks, her voice is not entirely even. “Is it so difficult to believe that I wanted to kiss you?”

Hope rising within him, he grabs her arm and turns it over, praying with every fiber of his being that their kiss will have—but no. It’s as blank as it ever was, and Loki’s whole frame droops with hopelessness. He forces himself to his feet and turns away from her. “You and I—we’re not like that. We’re not destined to be together.”

Sif immediately stands as well, a few steps behind him, and her voice is firm and even as she says, “I am heartily sick of destiny.”

Something bright seeps into his chest for a moment—but then he wilts again. “We can’t just ignore fate.”

“Why not?” she demands. “Ask and Embla did.”

“They were fools,” Loki says.

“They were happy,” Sif retorts.

Loki, finally turning around to face her, can only stare. “I don’t understand,” he whispers finally, his voice having abandoned him. He waves a hand and the star illusion disappears; the lights come back on and suddenly it’s no longer a magical day among the stars. It’s simply two people, crossed by fate, standing in a dusty library.

“I want to be with you,” Sif says steadily, and Loki’s heart does a painful sort of leap in his chest. “I have wanted to be with you for a long time, but I never dared say anything, for you never seemed to feel the same way. But after that kiss—Loki, tell me I’m not the only one who felt that.”

She is not. But Loki can’t—they aren’t—this isn’t how this works (not how the universe works, not how his life works). “You don’t understand,” he says miserably.

“No, I don’t,” she agrees tartly. “Explain it to me.”

The words will hurt too much to speak aloud, so with a stab of pain in his heart, Loki pushes his sleeve up and mutters an incantation, desperate for her to understand, desperate for her to stop acting like this is something he can have. Because the hope, and the disappointment that will surely follow, is more than he can bear.

The enchantment on his arm falls away, revealing the letters he only allows himself to look at in the privacy of his chambers, late at night: the elegant, slender runes that spell “Sif Tyrsdottir” up the pale expanse of his inner forearm.

Sif stares. “Loki, is that real?” she whispers. She reaches out to trace her name on his skin with her finger, and a shiver runs through him. “How long?”

“Since the day I met you,” he confesses, and joy fills her whole face like the sun slowly rising, too bright to look at, and Loki knows she’s misunderstood what he’s trying to tell her. “Don’t you see what this means?” he demands, stepping away because if she keeps touching him like that he will not be able to get through this conversation.

The look of confusion and hope on her face almost does him in. “That you’ve had my name on your arm all this time,” she says. “How can you still say we shouldn’t be together?”

“Because you’ve never had my name!” he fires back. “I’ve had your name on my arm for seven hundred years, and your arm has been blank for what, three years now? That is plenty of time for you to have gotten my mark. And you never have, not even when Thor’s disappeared. Surely, if you and I were soulmates, you would have gotten my mark eventually.”

Sif bites her lower lip. “Is that your only concern? That I don’t have your mark?”

Loki stares. And then he nods.

She examines him a long moment, and for once in her life she looks less than completely confident. But she does look determined. She takes a deep breath, her hands clenched tightly into fists. And then she says, “Loki, I love you.”

He blinks.

“I’ve loved you for . . . I don’t know how long. Even when I still carried Thor’s mark on my arm, even when I thought I would marry him, I was . . . drawn to you. Fascinated by you. Concerned for you. And once I was free of the soulmark . . .” She shakes her head. “I would have spoken months ago, but your arm was still blank. I thought that somewhere out there was a woman who would eventually carry your mark, and I couldn’t take your destiny from you.” She looks down at his arm, and one hand reaches out as though to touch the mark again, but then it drops to her side. “But it was me all along.” She looks back up at him. “And Loki, it’s been you all along.”

His heart is pounding so hard that he half wonders if she can hear it. “But, destiny—”

“I don’t care about destiny anymore,” she says flatly. “I’m not even convinced that soulmarks work the way we believe. How could I carry Thor’s but love him only as a brother for seven hundred years? How could Jane’s mark have overpowered mine? How could my arm have stayed blank while I’ve loved you so dearly and devotedly for so long? We’re wrong about them; that’s the only explanation.” She takes a step closer while Loki struggles to get his breathing under control. “And more importantly, I don’t care what fate says I should do. I’ve been making my own destiny since I chose to step off the path normally meant for a queen and become a warrior. Why shouldn’t I make my own destiny in this situation as well?” And suddenly she looks a little hesitant. “If you . . . want me, that is.”

“I have always wanted you,” Loki whispers, quite against his will, and Sif breaks out in a brilliant grin.

“I thought that was what that kiss meant, but it’s good to know for certain.”

He shakes his head, needing to lodge objections even as he hopes she will talk him out of them. “This is . . . unprecedented.”

“Ask and Embla,” she reminds him. “They lived a long and happy life, and had many successful descendents.”

“But it is unprecedented for the Allfather and the Allmother,” he says, thinking of his parents’ marks, and then his face flames red as he realizes that he has just spoken of a possible marriage between them. “I mean,” he tries to cover, “just that . . . we are both in the public eye . . .”

“Good,” says Sif heatedly. “Perhaps we would set a good example for the people of Asgard and free them from the tyranny of soulmarks. Perhaps we could teach them that to choose a partner for themselves, and to work hard to keep that relationship strong, is better than to wait for destiny to drop a soulmate in their laps.”

His heart nearly stops. “And . . . is that what you propose to do?”

And Sif gives him a little smile that he thinks he could happily spend his lifetime looking at. “If you would have me, then yes.”

It is madness. It is going against millennia of tradition. But she makes many logical points.

And more than that, Loki is growing tired of fighting every nerve in his body, every neuron in his brain, that is screaming at him to take Sif in his arms and kiss her again. It is madness. But so is a Jotun on the throne of Asgard; so is the crown prince abdicating for the sake of a few brief decades with a Midgardian; so is a one-sided soulmark.

And it would be madness to say no to everything he’s ever wanted, when she’s standing in front of him, offering herself to him.

So he steps forward, shedding centuries of doubt from his shoulders as he moves. “I love you,” he says, and her face breaks out into a relieved smile.

“And I love you.”

“Will you marry me?” he asks.

“Gladly,” she says. And Loki gathers her into his arms.

. . . . . .

And so it is that Loki Allfather marries a woman who does not carry his soulmark, in the same ceremony where his adopted father crowns him king. This is a matter of no small amount of gossip and discussion throughout Asgard, for the new king and queen make no attempt to hide their wrists. (Loki’s wrist is back under that disguising enchantment again, for to let it be seen would be tantamount to admitting that he is not Asgardian, and they have all agreed that is not yet the right time for that. So for now, he and Sif both show blank wrists to the world.)

Many old-timers find this all quite alarming, and warn often about it being a sign of impending doom; Loki’s marriage loses him some goodwill, among certain segments of the population. But others find it terribly romantic, that he loves someone so deeply that he’s willing to defy fate to be with her, and on the whole the negative and positive responses mostly even each other out.

Odin, when he awakes from the Odinsleep three weeks after Loki and Sif become engaged, is one of the concerned parties, along with Hogun and Hœnir; it sets him off on another rant about how none of this would have happened if Thor had done has duty. But it is just the fearful reflex of an old man whose world changes but rarely, and after he’s had an hour to think about it, he comes around. He has always thought Sif would make an excellent queen, and it doesn’t take long for him to start informing everyone that he’s always been in favor of the marriage.

Others are very happy with the match. Frigga cries when she hears, and Fandral and Volstagg are cheerfully supportive, and Tyr and Gná are simply thrilled that their daughter will be queen at last, after all the twists and turns of the last few years. Thor, too, could not be happier with this turn of events.

“This is perfect!” he declares when Sif and Loki go to visit him and Jane in their Los Angeles apartment. “Sif, you shall be queen after all.” He shoots her a little glance when he says that, and she feels gratified to know that he still feels a little guilty for abandoning her the way he did.

“Yes, but that’s not why I’m marrying him,” she says. She glances at Loki and immediately gets lost in his intense gaze. When she turns back, Thor looks a little baffled, but Jane is giving her a knowing smile.

“I’m so happy things have worked out so well,” the Midgardian says quietly, and Sif remembers how she’d thought, back on that fateful day they first met, that she could have been friends with Jane Foster.

“I think where we both ended up suits us better than where we had thought to end up,” she tells Thor, and he grins at her.

“Agreed.”

And so Loki and Sif marry, and Sif’s prediction comes true: their very public and very destiny-defying marriage does seem to inspire others, and reports begin to trickle in from all over Asgard of people marrying without soulmarks. And really, the success rate of these marriages seems to be right on par with the success rate of soulmate marriages, so it doesn’t seem that soulmarks were doing them that much good anyway.

And Loki and Sif are one of the successful marriages. Sif never does get a name on her arm; Loki keeps his mark hidden until the day, five hundred years after his coronation, that he admits to Asgard that he is Jotun by birth. This comes after five hundred years of carefully boosting the public image of the Jotuns, and after Loki has become as respected and beloved as Odin ever was, and after the sweet young crown prince Ullr has won the hearts of the people of Asgard. So while the people are very surprised, they mostly accept this news with equanimity.

Thor, who now splits his time between adventuring across the galaxy and visiting his family in Asgard and Midgard, might be the most surprised of all, but he loves his brother too dearly to let this come between them. And when he hears that Loki suffered in silence, his arm hidden in shame, for seven hundred years while Thor was engaged to the woman he loved, he hugs his little brother long and hard and declares, not for the first time in the last five centuries, how very glad he is that things worked out the way they did.

And so the people of Asgard grow accustomed to the one-sided soulmark on their king’s arm, and before long, when they think of it, they think not of his foreign birth, but simply of the romantic tale of his marriage. And the name on the king’s arm, and the blank spot on the queen’s arm, become reminders of a time long ago, when soulmarks were considered incontrovertible, and when two star-crossed lovers elected to choose each other in defiance of destiny.

And Loki Allfather and Sif Allmother continue to choose each other, every day, for the rest of their lives.

. . . . . .

fin


End file.
